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3525 

A1388 

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MAIN 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    3E5    4fl3 


THE  PEACE 

OF 
THE 

SOLOMON 
VALLEY 


"The    Peace   of  the   Solomon  Valley  mingled 
with  the  peace  of  our  own  hearts." 


THE  PEACE 

"  \  OF  j~~ 
THE  i 

SOLOMON 
VALLEY 


MARGARET  HILL  MCCARTER 

Author  of 

"The  Price  of  the  Prmrie',' 
"In  Old  Quiytra,' 
"Cxuddy  s  Baby,"Etc. 


CHICAGO 


1915 


Copyright  1911 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 


Published  September,  1911 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 


Twenty-third  Edition 
1915 


W.   F.   HALL  PRINTING  COMPANY,  CHICAGO 


PS 


To  the  Good  People 

Of  a  Good  Land 
Even  the  Folks  Who  Dwell 

In  this  Valley 

With  Deep  Appreciation 

Of  Their  Kind  Words  and  Deeds 

To  Me-ward 


M35639 


'If  you're   world-weary,  and  longing 
for  rest, 

Just  come  to  the  Plains  and  submit  to 
be  blessed." 

LILLA  DAY  MONROF 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE 
SOLOMON  VALLEY 


MARCH 


Letter  from  JOHN  ELLERTON, 

New    York   City,    to   DANIEL 
BRONSON,  Talton.  Kansas. 

NEW  YORK  CITY,  March. 
DEAR  DAN  : 

The  newspaper  you  sent  last  week 
was  almost  like  a  letter  from  you,  be 
cause  it  was  just  like  you  to  send  the 
paper  instead  of  writing  the  message  it 
contained.  You  know  how  I  welcome 
every  bit  of  information  concerning  you 
and  yours,  but,  of  course,  you'd  never 
tell  me  how  prosperous  you  are  now. 
Left  it  for  the  Talton  Herald  to  set 
forth  how  "  Daniel  Bronson,  one  of  the 
well-to-do  farmers  up  on  the  Solomon, 
shipped  out"  —  how  many  carloads  of 
cattle  was  it?  And  what  is  alfalfa 
coined  out  of  anyhow,  that  it  can  bring 
in  such  a  wad  of  money  to  a  "well-to- 
do  "  farmer?  Well-to-do !  I  should  say 
so,  with  checks  like  the  one  the  printer 
set  up  coming  in  with  the  shipment  of 
stock  and  sale  of  that  long-legged  clover 
you  call  alfalfa.  Did  my  heart  good  to 
read  about  it,  though,  just  because  your 
name  went  with  it.  I  '11  confess  here 
that  I  was  afraid  at  first  to  look  through 
that  newspaper  for  the  blue  pencil 
marks,  for  fear  —  oh,  well,  never  mind. 
7 


8  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

We  are  not  young  any  more.  I  sup 
pose  we  must  expect  now  that  some 
time  one  will  be  taken  and  the  other  left. 
I  can't  realize  that  we  are  both  getting 
close  to  sixty,  with  children  grown  up. 
At  least  my  boy  thinks  he  is  a  man. 
And  yet,  Dan,  it  seems  such  a  short  time 
since  we  went  out  of  Yale  together, 
neck  and  neck  for  honors.  You  remem 
ber  our  planning  to  go  West  together? 
What  care-free  days  those  were !  That 
was  a  glorious  j  aunt  we  took  across  the 
Plains  back  in  the  '70's.  You  stayed  in 
Kansas  because  you  wanted  to  and  I 
came  back  to  New  York  because  I  had 
to.  But  say,  old  man,  you  needn't  fill 
your  letters  as  you  did  your  last  one 
with  what  you  say  I  did  for  you  in  your 
day  of  trouble  out  there.  I  only  loaned 
you  a  few  thousand  dollars  to  tide  you 
over  the  day  of  wrath  when  the  drouth 
and  grasshopper  and  mortgage  fell  on 
you  as  well  as  on  the  unjust.  And  you 
have  paid  me  back  every  cent.  You 
seem  to  forget  that.  I  wonder  where  I 
would  have  been  in  that  near-panic  of 
1907  if  I  hadn't  had  some  good  Kansas 
coin  (coin  you  had  minted  out  of  your 
cattle  and  alfalfa)  to  invest  when  all 
the  springs  were  running  dry  for  us 
smaller  fellows  in  the  East. 

But  I  'm  writing  now,  Dan,  to  ask  a 
favor  of  you.  You  remember  how  that 
rheumatism  had  me  hobbled  down  when 
I  went  to  Kansas  thirty  years  or  more 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  9 

ago  ?  You  ought  to,  because  you  had  to 
carry  me  half  the  time.  And  you  re 
member  what  six  months  in  the  Solo 
mon  Valley  did  for  me?  I  came  home 
sound  as  a  dollar  and  never  had  a  twinge 
of  rheumatism  since  that  summer.  Now 
my  boy,  Leroy,  who  finished  Yale  a 
year  ago,  has  been  ailing  with  the  same 
accursed  affliction  for  nearly  two  years. 
It  knocked  him  out  of  his  athletics  the 
last  year  of  his  college  course.  It  nearly 
broke  his  heart,  or  what  is  worse,  his 
spirit.  He  wants  me  to  send  him  off  to 
Europe.  Dan,  I  can't  afford  it  right 
now,  and  I  don't  want  to  anyhow. 
He's  got  the  wrong  notion  about  him 
self  and  the  world.  Rheumatism  will 
do  that  for  a  fellow.  He  thinks  he  is 
going  to  be  a  confirmed  invalid,  a  gen 
tleman  invalid,  not  able  to  earn,  but 
fully  able  to  spend.  And  that 's  not  all. 
He  does  n't  look  at  things  plumb.  New 
York  is  all  right  as  a  place  to  make 
money,  but,  like  all  big  cities,  it  is  a 
poor  place  to  make  character  in  chil 
dren.  Why,  this  city'd  go  to  smash  if 
all  the  New  England,  Indiana,  and 
Kansas  country-bred  boys  were  sud 
denly  pulled  out  of  its  business  circles. 
But  Roy's  got  the  idea  —  you  know  his 
kind,  Dan, —  that  the  Lord  made  the 
world  as  far  west  as  the  Adirondacks, 
maybe,  and  left  the  rest  to  chance.  He 's 
fixed  in  the  foolery  that  this  city  is  the 
centre  of  God's  eternal  universe. 


10  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

I  want  to  send  him  to  you  for  six 
months,  first,  to  lose  that  rheumatism 
and  confirmed-invalid  notion  some 
where  out  there  on  the  prairies,  and  sec 
ond,  to  learn  what  the  West  and  coun 
try  life  are  worth.  Can  you  stand  him 
for  that  time?  You  can  let  him  learn 
his  lesson  alone.  He'll  come  to  you 
with  some  high  and  mighty  notions 
about  the  East  and  himself.  If  he 
does  n't  come  home  next  Fall  a  new  man 
it  will  be  the  disappointment  of  my  life. 

If  our  children  could  always  lean  on 
us  it  would  be  easy  sailing  down  the 
years,  but  I'm  up  against  the  fact  that 
we  must  shape  them  up  to  live  their  own 
lives,  and  that  those  lives  may  be  in 
marble  halls  or  wayside  hovels,  with 
Fate  playing  the  strongest  hand  of  cir 
cumstance  against  us. 

Don't  misunderstand  Roy.  He  is  a 
gentleman  clear  to  the  bone.  He  con 
fides  in  me  as  much  almost  as  in  his 
mother,  who,  by  the  way,  agrees  with 
me  only  partially  in  this  plan.  I  'm 
proud  of  him,  of  course,  but  he  must 
learn  that  he's  only  a  temporary  invalid 
and  he  must  get  a  bigger  perspective 
on  the  country  over  which  Old  Glory 
swings  and  on  the  folks  that  live  under 
the  shadow  of  it.  You  know,  Bronson, 
how  much  I  '11  appreciate  what  you  can 
do  for  me. 

I  'm  so  concerned  about  Roy,  I  al 
most  forgot  to  say  that  Mrs.  Ellerton 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  n 

has  been  called  up  to  East  Machias, 
Maine,  to  stay  indefinitely  with  a  great 
aunt  of  hers  who  is  almost  helpless. 
The  old  lady  won't  come  down  to  New 
York  and  stay  with  us.  She's  rooted 
fast  to  that  little  Maine  village.  She 
took  care  of  my  wife's  mother  when  she 
was  a  girl  and  made  such  a  home  for  her 
as  few  orphan  children  have.  Leroy's 
grandmother  was  left  alone  early  in  life. 
She  had  Mary  (Mrs.  Ellerton)  prom 
ise  never  to  neglect  any  wish  of  Aunt 
Prudence's,  and  it  is  the  old  lady's  wish 
that  Mary  should  take  care  of  her  in  her 
last  days.  She  seems  to  be  one  of  those 
little  Yankee  women  whose  last  days  do 
last.  I  am  glad  that  Mary  can  be  with 
her,  although  it  would  simplify  matters 
mightily  if  Aunt  Prudence  would  only 
let  us  take  care  of  her  here.  However, 
she  is  as  averse  to  coming  to  the  city  as 
Leroy  is  to  leaving  it,  so  you  can  see 
my  family  dilemma  has  a  couple  of 
horns  to  be  dealt  with. 

I  haven't  told  Roy  who  you  are.  I 
am  just  letting  him  go  to  strangers  in  a 
way,  so  he  will  learn  something,  if  it 's 
in  him  to  learn,  and  not  be  prejudiced 
by  any  obligations  to  our  feelings.  I 
believe  it's  in  him,  too.  With  best 
wishes  to  you  and  the  children,  I  am 

Yours  as  always, 

JOHN  ELLERTON 


12  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 


Letter  from  DANIEL  BRONSON 
to  JOHN  ELLERTON 

TALTON,  KANSAS,  March. 
DEAR  JOHN: 

Yours  received.  You  know  I  'm  glad 
to  be  able  to  return  a  small  part  of  the 
obligation  I  owe  to  you.  Send  Leroy 
on  at  once.  We  can  care  for  him  nicely. 
I  'm  afraid  he  will  find  us  dull  company, 
but  if  he  likes  music,  Eunice  can  play 
and  sing  some. 

But  business  aside,  Jack,  it  did  me  a 
world  of  good  to  see  your  hand-writing 
again  and  I  jumped  at  the  thought  of 
having  your  boy  with  us.  Took  me 
back  to  the  days  when  you  and  I  came 
here  together,  you  to  get  back  your 
health,  and  I  to  make  my  fortune.  We 
both  succeeded,  although  you  came 
through  in  one  season,  and  I  put  in 
years  at  the  job.  I  can  see  you  now, 
white  and  delicate  and  brave  in  your 
suffering. 

This  land  was  desolate  enough  then. 
Only  Hope  filtered  the  atmosphere 
with  a  golden  glamour.  I  Ve  seen  that 
glamour  fade  and  the  light  turn  to 
gloom  more  than  once  since  the  day  I 
preempted  my  first  hundred  and  sixty, 
and  cut  sod  for  my  little  dugout  home 
stead.  You  know  I  built  up  on  the 
swell  above  the  river  with  not  a  claim- 
holder  near  me  then.  I  can  see  three 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  is 

villages  from  the  front  porch  now,  and 
the  Solomon  Valley  is  like  the  Garden 
of  Eden.  And  yet  sometimes  I  am 
sentimental  enough  to  wish  for  the  old- 
time  picture  back  again,  the  plain  little 
house,  the  prairies  rippling  away  in  the 
distance,  and  the  common  loneliness, 
the  common  need  for  companionship. 
We  were  poor  in  those  days,  as  prop 
erty  goes,  but  we  were  rich  in  the  spirit 
of  neighborly  kindness.  When  our 
baby  boy  died,  John  Ellerton  Bronson 
we  called  him,  we  could  n't  have  endured 
it  but  for  the  loving  sympathy  of  those 
homesteaders,  poor  as  ourselves,  but 
generous,  and  sympathetic  in  the  sor 
rows  of  others. 

I  might  have  come  into  my  own  a 
little  sooner  in  New  York,  but  I've 
always  been  glad  I  came  West;  glad 
that  it  was  my  privilege  to  see  this  val 
ley  change  from  a  stretch  of  blossomy 
springtime  prairie  to  a  sweep  of  alfalfa 
bloom,  from  a  seared  waste  of  burned 
mid-summer  grasses  to  the  green  acres 
of  corn.  It  is  worth  the  best  years  of 
one's  life  to  have  watched  the  transfor 
mation. 

But  I  won't  keep  this  up.  Send 
Leroy  out  and  we'll  fix  that  rheuma 
tism. 

My  Seth  is  a  perfect  giant  now. 
He  finishes  college  next  year.  Carries 
football  and  track-meet  honors  enough 
to  break  down  an  ordinary  constitution. 


14  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

He  has  about  made  up  his  mind  to  go 
West  when  he  gets  through  school. 
With  us  there  is  no  real  West,  you 
know,  till  we  get  to  the  Rockies  and 
beyond.  Of  course,  I'd  rather  keep 
Seth  here,  and  I  need  him.  The  ranch 
is  getting  to  be  more  of  a  proposition 
to  manage  every  year.  We  used  to 
think  we  were  busy,  John,  in  the  little 
corn  patches  and  mowing  lots  up  be 
tween  the  Vermont  hills,  before  we 
went  down  to  Yale.  But  when  a 
bumper  wheat  crop  comes  our  way  out 
here,  with  four  or  five  cuttings  a  season 
on  the  quarter  section  I  have  set  to  al 
falfa,  I  can  assure  you  that  Satan  must 
look  to  something  else  beside  idle  hands 
to  get  in  his  work  in  a  Kansas  summer. 
So  I  could  give  Seth  a  fine  start  in  life, 
if  he  only  took  to  the  soil.  But  he 
doesn't.  Since  he  was  a  little  boy  he 
has  been  crazy  over  mines  and  metals. 
He 's  an  expert  even  now  in  those  lines 
and  can  hardly  wait  to  finish  school,  he 
is  so  eager  for  the  West  and  the  moun 
tains  and  mining. 

As  I  said,  Eunice  can  play  and  sing 
some.  She  has  finished  with  her  teach 
ers  here  and  wants  to  go  East  in  the 
Fall.  I  may  ask  your  protection  for 
her  then.  It  was  her  mother's  wish 
that  she  should  have  the  opportunity 
for  a  musical  career.  Poor  Ellen  never 
really  felt  at  home  in  Kansas.  You 
know  she  was  young  when  she  died.  It 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  is 

was  only  the  hard  work  of  a  pioneer 
farmer's  wife  that  fell  to  her  lot,  and 
when  times  grew  better  and  we  began 
to  know  some  of  the  luxuries  of  the 
country,  she  was  taken  from  us.  I  feel 
that  that  is  the  reason  she  was  so  eager 
to  have  our  daughter  given  a  musical 
education.  She  thought  Eunice's  life 
in  Kansas  would  be  as  hers  had  been. 
John,  I  can't  blame  her.  It  was  the 
women  who  bore  the  heaviest  burdens 
here  in  the  first  years. 

I  shall  miss  my  little  girl  dreadfully 
if  she  does  go  away.  But  we  must  not 
stand  in  the  way  of  our  children  doing 
the  best  with  their  talents.  And  as  you 
say,  we  can't  keep  them  with  us  always. 
They  must  fly  their  own  gait. 

Again,  I  assure  you  we'll  welcome 
your  boy  and  do  our  best  for  his  com 
fort. 

With  kind  regards  to  Mrs.  Ellerton, 
I  am, 

Faithfully  yours, 

DAX'L  BRONSON 


16  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 


APRIL 

Letter  from  LEEOY  ELLERTON 
to  HIS  FATHER 

TALTON,  KANSAS,  April. 
DEAR  FATHER: 

At  last  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  jour 
ney,  aching  in  every  joint  I  ever  had 
and  some  new  ones  I  Ve  just  discovered. 
But  here  I  am  in  this  God-forsaken 
Kansas  region  called  the  Solomon  Val 
ley.  It  may  be  a  degree  better  than 
Death's  Valley,  which  is  still  farther 
West  somewhere,  I  am  told.  But  since 
I  am  here,  like  Hamlet's  ghostly  father, 
"  doomed  for  a  certain  time  to  walk  this 
particular  piece  of  earth,"  here  for  the 
first  time,  and  I  hope  to  Jiminy,  the  last 
as  well,  I  '11  try  to  make  the  best  of  it  if 
it  kills  me.  But  it  does  seem  to  me  that 
I  might  have  gone  to  Europe,  like  a 
gentleman,  if  you  had  n't  come  down  on 
me  with  the  ukase — "Go  to  the  Solo 
mon  Valley  for  six  months  and  come 
back  cured  forever." 

Six  months!  I'll  be  cured  long  be 
fore  that,  for  I  '11  be  dead.  I  know,  of 
course,  that  Indians  and  buffaloes, 
and  maybe,  cowboys  are  not  to  be  found 
here  now,  but  it  is  a  cursed  crude  place 
to  thrust  an  Eastern  chap  into.  And 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  17 

I  don't  mind  saying,  Father  mine,  that 
I  stand  up  for  the  prayers  of  the  con 
gregation. 

A  drummer  whom  I  met  on  the  train 
going  out  of  Kansas  City  promised  me 
if  I  stayed  here  six  months,  there'd  be 
no  pulling  me  out  of  Kansas  again.  Do 
I  look  like  that,  I  wonder.  I  can't  see 
where  the  valley  comes  in  here.  It  is 
as  flat  as  a  pancake  for  ten  thousand 
miles  in  every  direction.  I  'm  sure  the 
drainage  is  bad.  Fine  place  to  cure 
rheumatism,  though!  Why  my  father 
should  think  I'd  ever  get  well  in  such 
a  miserable  place,  I  can't  comprehend. 
It's  the  very  bottom  of  the  universe. 
It's  the  under-side  of  the  world. 

When  the  Kansas  City  drummer  left 
the  train  at  some  little  town,  he  said: 
"You  are  new  to  the  West.  There  is 
a  lot  more  for  a  rustic  New  Yorker  to 
learn  out  here  than  for  a  woolly  West 
erner  to  learn  in  the  East.  Some  of 
your  folks  learn  quickly.  Some  are 
slow,  but  when  they  do  get  their  lesson, 
they  are  the  best  fellows  on  earth.  My 
friend,  I  hope  you  may  not  only  lose 
your  rheumatism  out  on  the  prairies,  I 
hope  that  you  may  also  lose  the  notion 
that  this  part  of  the  Lord's  earth,  peo 
ple  and  all,  just  happened,  and  wasn't 
set  down  in  the  divine  plan." 

I  hope  he  knows.  But,  to  be  honest, 
there  is  something — I  don't  know 
what  —  that  seems  restful  after  that 


18  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

long  car-ride.  And  it  was  long.  I  claim 
I  'm  not  a  provincial,  but  I  did  n't  know 
that  the  world  was  quite  so  big  both 
ways.  There  is  a  tone  in  the  air  and 
a  little  haze  of  pink  on  the  orchards  and 
a  thousand  shades  of  green  on  the 
landscape  —  all  of  which  was  pleasant 
when  I  stepped  off  the  Pullman  at 
Talton. 

Your  friend,  Bronson,  met  me  at  the 
station.  He  is  a  tall  man,  broad- 
chested,  erect,  with  grizzled  dark  hair 
and  bright  dark  eyes.  He  is  a  farmer, 
of  course,  tanned  face  and  hands,  home 
laundered  shirt,  plain  clothes,  and 
freshly  blacked  boots  —  everything 
showing  the  country-man  in  his  "other 
clothes." 

"Is  this  Leroy  Ellerton?"  he  asked. 
And  I  must  say  it  was  a  good  voice  to 
hear.  Something  in  its  intonation  was 
in  keeping  with  his  strong  face  arid  stal 
wart  form.  His  handshake,  too,  is 
worth  while.  There  is  a  kind  of  life  in 
his  touch  that  thrills  my  nerves  to  the 
shoulder.  He  had  my  suitcases  and 
me  all  stowed  into  a  low,  easy  phaeton 
before  I  knew  it.  I  think  that,  for  a 
Westerner,  he  knows  how  to  handle  a 
fellow  with  rheumatism.  I  hoped  he 
would  n't  try  to  talk  to  me  nor  make  me 
talk,  and  he  didn't.  If  he'll  always 
anticipate  my  wishes,  I  can  stand  him, 
I  believe.  In  fact,  it  was  I  who  made 
him  talk  to  me,  like  this: 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  19 

"You  knew  my  father,  Mr.  Bron- 
son?"  I  asked  him. 

"Oh,  yes;  we  came  West  together." 

"  You  did  ?  Why,  I  did  n't  know  you 
had  ever  been  East." 

"I  haven't,  for  a  long  time." 

"  You  met  my  father  in  the  East  ? "  I 
asked.  You  see,  Papa,  I  was  getting 
interested  in  spite  of  myself. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "We  were  boys  to 
gether." 

"Father  was  just  out  of  Yale  Uni 
versity  when  he  came  West,"  I  said,  a 
little  boastfully.  Thought  he  might  as 
well  know  whose  son  he  had  the  honor 
of  having  for  his  guest.  "He  wrote 
you  I  was  coming?" 

The  old  fellow  smiled  a  little.  Then 
he  said,  "  Yes,  I  had  a  letter  from  him 
and  I  came  up  to  meet  you." 

And  here  I  am  settled  in  my  room. 
The  Bronsons  have  a  better  house  than 
I  had  expected,  and  my  den  here  is  spot 
lessly  clean.  I've  a  big  easy  rocker 
that  is  very  comfortable,  and  a  mirror 
and  a  writing  table.  The  view  from 
my  window  is  really  wonderful.  I'd 
no  idea  one  could  see  so  far  except  on 
the  ocean.  There  is  a  stretch  of  the 
Solomon  River  in  sight,  and  just  now 
when  the  sun  went  down  there  was  a 
kaleidoscope  of  blending  colors  in  the 
sky. 

I  caught  sight  of  a  piano  as  I  passed 
by  the  parlor  door  on  my  way  to  sup- 


20  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

per.  I  had  supposed  a  parlor  organ 
would  be  a  luxury  here.  I  reckon  I  'm 
doomed  to  listen  to  the  daughter  of  the 
house  play  "Silver  Threads  among 
the  Gold,"  and  "Lambs  of  the  Upper 
Fold"  —  oh,  Father,  what  made  you 
do  it?  But  no  matter.  There  isn't 
any  Mrs.  Bronson  now,  it  seems,  and 
this  daughter  is  the  housekeeper.  She 
isn't  unattractive,  and  she  has  a  voice, 
magnetic  and  resonant  like  her  father's, 
but  soft  and  clear.  She  is  a  good  cook. 
Her  supper  was  a  dream.  And  would 
you  believe  it,  they  had  blue  china  and 
real  silver.  For  the  first,  I  suppose. 
To-morrow  it  will  be  a  red  table  cloth 
and  iron-stone  china  and  soda  biscuit, 
like  we  found  up  in  York  State  farm 
houses  last  Summer.  Oh,  dear!  Will 
this  six  months  ever,  ever  end?  Good 
night,  Father,  I'm  going  to  bed.  If 
only  I  could  sleep  six  months!  I'll 
write  to  mother  in  the  morning.  And 
you  may  send  this  on  to  her  as  soon  as 
you  have  read  it.  It  will  save  my  fin 
gers  some  work.  I  'm  glad  she  does  n't 
have  to  bring  Aunt  Prudence  out  here. 
*  *  *  Seems  to  me  the  architect 
who  built  this  Solomon  Valley  wasn't 
an  expert  in  his  line.  The  joke  is  on 
Solomon. 

Yours  with  the  back-ache, 

ROY 


SOLOMON  VALEEY  21 


Letter  from  LEROY  ELLERTON 
to  HIS  MOTHER 

TALTON,  KANSAS,  April. 

In  the  south  upper  veranda, 
with  sunshine  and  no  wind. 

DEAR  MUMMY  MINE  : 

My  love  and  respects  to  Aunt  Pru 
dence —  now  that's  my  whole  duty. 
She  boxed  my  ears  too  often  when  I 
was  a  boy  for  me  to  do  more  than  that 
for  her.  Not  that  the  boxing  wasn't 
good  for  me.  I  respect  her  for  it  now. 
But  please  consider  that  this  sen 
tence  stands  at  the  head  of  every  letter 
that  I  write  to  you.  Or  I  could  have 
it  embossed  and  framed  to  hang  over 
her  bed.  Yes,  yes,  I'll  keep  still;  I 
know  her  story.  She  was  a  mother  to 
my  grandmother,  and  a  dear  good 
great-mother  (is  that  the  way  to  put 
it?)  to  you,  and  you  are  awfully  thank 
ful  that  you  can  be  with  her.  Seems 
to  me  the  Ellertons  have  a  lot  to  thank 
Providence  for.  You  for  being  an 
chored  in  the  dizzy  social  whirl  of  East 
Machias  and  your  son  and  heir  nesting 
out  in  the  flat  green  Sahara  thing  called 
the  Solomon  Valley.  For  it's  a  very 
desert  in  length  and  loneliness  and  eter 
nal  sameness,  but  it  is  green  as  the 
greenest  sheltered  meadow  of  Maine 


22  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

in  mid-summer.  And  you  say  Aunt 
Prudence  hasn't  the  rheumatism.  Of 
course  not.  I  Ve  got  all  of  it  that 's 
coming  to  this  family.  And  anyhow, 
she'd  not  be  over  eighty  and  "all  her 
faculties  bright "  down  in  East  Machias 
if  she  had  this  plague  of  plagues.  She  'd 
be  under  a  "sacred  to  the  memory" 
sign  in  the  same  form  as  John  Brown's 
body  (Kansas  John,  you  know),  long 
enough  before  eighty. 

But  I  didn't  mean  to  send  this  kind 
of  a  letter.  Father  will  forward  to  you 
what  I  write  to  him.  That  will  tell  the 
important  things.  I  write  with  you  in 
mind,  or  I  'd  never  tell  him  some  things. 
Dear  old  Dad,  I'd  like  to  disinherit  him 
right  now.  But  I  said  I  'd  quit.  Well, 
I  am  Here.  That  is  to  say  —  No 
where.  Got  here  as  per  schedule. 
See  Papa's  letter.  Do  you  know  this 
Bronson  outfit?  That  last  is  a  Wild 
West  novel  word.  There  is  a  Father 
—  not  bad  to  look  at  for  a  farmer,  but 
all  farmer.  And  there  is  a  Son — I  am 
told.  He  is  to  appear  in  a  later  act  of 
this  Wild  West  Show.  And  there  is  a 
Daughter.  All  very  interesting,  no 
doubt,  if  I  was  n't  compelled  to  see  them 
daily.  But  they  are  not  bad  looking. 
Eunice,  that's  the  girl,  is  not  like  a 
farmer's  daughter  exactly,  although  I 
tried  at  supper  and  breakfast  to  let  her 
go  at  that.  She  let  me  go,  all  right. 
When  I  was  n't  thinking  of  this  pain  in 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  23 

my  shoulder,  I  couldn't  help  noticing 
her  a  little. 

What  does  she  look  like,  you  will  ask, 
because  you  are  a  woman.  Frankly,  I 
don't  know.  Just  like  any  other  green 
Kansas  girl,  I  reckon.  A  little  while 
ago,  she  came  into  my  room  and  told 
me  where  to  find  this  place  at  the  south 
end  of  the  upper  hall.  It  is  the  coziest 
spot  for  a  rheum  —  I  mean,  fellow. 
Cushions  and  a  big  easy  chair  and  a 
willow  couch.  It 's  all  screened  in  from 
mosquitoes  and  flies,  and  a  perfect 
surge  of  sunshine  rolls  into  it.  There 
is  a  little  table  by  the  couch  and  a  rug 
on  the  floor.  I  wonder  if  they  didn't 
borrow  a  lot  of  these  things  from  all  the 
neighbors  in  town.  Sets  some  folks  up 
to  have  a  New  Yorker  with  them,  you 
know. 

However,  the  Bronsons  don't  act  set 
up.  They  take  me  as  a  matter  of 
course.  When  Eunice  brought  me  out 
here,  she  said : 

"  This  is  to  be  your  corner  as  long  as 
you  care  for  it.  The  sharp  air  is  shut 
away  by  the  gable  and  the  south  breeze 
is  pleasant  here  in  the  hot  weather.  I 
hope  it  will  be  comfortable  for  you." 

She  was  arranging  the  cushions,  and 
as  she  shook  up  the  pillows,  I  noticed 
her  hands  were  smooth  and  her  bare 
elbows  actually  had  dimples.  I  was 
going  to  say  some  flattering  nothings 
such  as  country  girls  feed  on,  but  when 


24  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

I  looked  into  her  face  —  I  decided  not 
to  do  it.  Still,  I  am  afraid  I'll  be  ex 
pected  to  do  the  gallant  thing  by  this 
Eunice.  Mother,  rheumatism  and  gal 
lantry  don't  go  together,  and  I  don't 
know  why  I  must  spend  energy  on  this 
daughter.  I  was  sent  here  and  I  'm 
serving  out  a  six  months'  sentence, 
that 's  all. 

Though  for  your  comfort,  Mummy, 
I  will  tell  you  that  the  Bronsons  don't 
seem  to  expect  much  of  me  yet.  How 
it  will  be  on  a  longer  acquaintance,  I 
can't  say,  nor  what  I'll  do  when  they 
begin  to  flock  to  New  York  to  pay  back 
this  visit.  Good-bye  now.  This  and 
Dad's  letter  will  tell  all  I  know.  It's 
a  warm,  drowsy  cove  up  in  this  corner 
of  my  cell  —  all  Kansas  is  a  cell  to  me. 
And  I  'm  going  to  sleep  as  many  hours 
as  I  can.  Don't  let  Aunt  Prudence 
wear  you  all  away. 

Affectionately, 

ROY 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  25 

MAY 

Letter  from  LEROY  ELLERTON 
to  HIS  FATHER 

TALTON,  KANSAS,  May. 
MY  DEAR  FATHER  : 

I  meant  to  write  you  several  days 
ago,  but  we've  been  so  busy,  I  put  it 
off.  You'll  wonder  what  I  could  find 
to  make  me  busy  —  I  who  have  been 
leaning  on  cushions  for  so  long.  Well, 
everybody  out  here  is  that  way.  And 
since  I  Ve  been  idle  for  a  year,  it  seems 
good  to  be  at  work  again.  I  Ve  been 
here  six  weeks.  I  didn't  think  I  could 
get  rid  of  so  much  pain  in  so  short  a 
time.  This  is  a  wonderful  air.  Why, 
I  sleep  all  night  now,  and  I  could  eat 
anything  from  a  cucumber  pickle  to  a 
Kansas  politician.  The  Bronsons  are 
really  well-bred  people,  even  if  they  do 
live  in  Kansas,  and  they  keep  the  neat 
est  home  and  set  up  the  best  table  —  or 
is  it  I  who  am  getting  my  old  Yale 
appetite  back? 

We  have  had  an  abundance  of  rain 
this  season,  and  it  is  the  greenest  world 
out  here  a  poor  city  fellow  with  memo 
ries  of  brick  walls  and  dust  ever  looked 
upon.  If  the  fresh  air  fiends  could 
only  send  their  slum  children  this  way 
they  would  get  some  of  the  real  thing. 
You  'd  be  surprised  to  know  how  many 
Eastern  magazines  find  their  way  out 


26  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

here.  I  was  amazed  when  I  saw  the 
number  of  books  and  the  kind  of  books 
in  the  bookcases.  Why,  Father,  they 
are  just  like  New  York  in  that,  now 
really  they  are.  More  so  than  in  even 
some  swell  homes.  I  know  young  ladies 
in  the  East  who  read  less,  I  do  believe, 
than  Eunice  does. 

But  I  can't  read  all  the  time.  So  I 
make  myself  useful  about  the  house. 
They  have  wads  of  flowers  in  bloom  and 
I  keep  the  bouquets  fresh  in  the  vases. 
Big  business  for  a  young  man  of 
twenty-three !  Also  I  play  the  piano  for 
Eunice.  She  sings  very  well,  consider 
ing.  And  she  plays  for  my  solos  in 
better  time  than  you'd  think.  You  see, 
Pappy  dear,  I  want  you  to  know  that 
these  folks  out  here  are  n't  such  heathen 
as  you,  living  in  New  York  and  never 
coming  out  of  your  shell,  would  think. 

I  believe  I  have  n't  mentioned  the  son, 
Seth  Bronson.  He  is  a  physical  giant, 
fair  though,  like  Eunice.  Did  I  tell 
you  that  Eunice  has  a  pretty  fine  skin 
for  Kansas?  But  this  Seth,  —  well,  he 
doesn't  like  me,  I'm  sure.  Although 
he  is  a  quiet  fellow,  I  suspect  he's  not 
half  the  fool  he  might  be  taken  for  in 
New  York.  He 's  quiet  like  his  father. 
I  was  afraid  he  'd  bore  me  to  death,  but 
instead  he  lets  me  alone  pretty  severely. 

He  has  just  come  home  for  his  vaca 
tion  from  some  place  called  Manhattan. 
(How  homesick  even  the  writing  of 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  27 

that  name  makes  me!)  For  a  college 
man  it  is  surprising  how  he  can  drop 
in  among  the  hired  men  and  work  just 
like  one  of  them.  "  How  can  a  fellow 
be  a  farm-hand  and  a  college  student?" 
I  asked  him  the  other  day.  He  stared 
at  me  a  minute  and  said,  "If  you  went 
down  to  Manhattan,  you'd  think  a  fel 
low  wouldn't  want  to  be  a  farm-hand 
unless  he  was  a  college  student,  —  not 
if  he  wanted  to  win  out  anyhow." 

One  rainy  afternoon  he  asked  me 
up  to  his  room  for  the  first  time. 
Why,  Father,  it  was  a  regular  college 
den,  with  pennants  and  baseball  and 
football  trophies.  Seth  is  a  champion 
at  these  things,  it  seems,  and  a  dozen 
pictures  and  tokens  in  his  room  show 
it.  And  you  ought  to  see  the  way  he 
can  handle  a  horse!  Isn't  any  more 
excited  over  the  most  fractious  one  than 
I  'd  be  over  a  cat.  I  was  out  in  the  pas 
ture  —  a  township  big  —  when  he  caught 
one  last  evening.  The  whole  drove 
came  at  us  like  army  cavalry.  You 
know  I  got  my  first  Yale  "  Y  "  in  a  pole 
vault.  I'd  have  vaulted  over  a  nine- 
foot  hedge  fence  just  then,  if  I'd  only 
had  the  pole.  You  can't  do  that  on  a 
last  year's  sunflower  stalk,  and  that  was 
the  longest  timber  in  sight.  Seth  never 
stopped  whistling,  and  only  looked  side 
ways  after  the  colt  he  wanted.  Had  it, 
too,  before  I  knew  what  to  do  next. 
That  horse  catch  awakened  a  sleeping 


28  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

force  in  me.  I  forgot  my  rheumatism 
altogether  and  stood  straighter  than  I 
have  in  a  year.  I  do  believe  that  some 
where  back  in  a  previous  incarnation  I 
was  something  of  a  centaur  myself,  that 
I  somehow  belonged  to  the  soil  and 
planted  and  harvested  and  was  at  home 
on  horseback.  I  feel  it  in  some  new 
pulse-beat  of  my  blood.  Anyhow, 
rheumatism  or  no  rheumatism,  I'm 
going  to  be  riding  and  driving  and 
catching  loose  horses  too,  before  Fall. 
I  know  I  can  do  it  as  well  as  that  six- 
footer  with  his  two  hundred  pounds 
gross  on  the  scales.  The  lubber! 

Eunice  is  a  musical  graduate  from 
some  college  out  here  they  call  Wash- 
burn.  They  talk  a  lot  about  it  and  she 
and  Seth  are  forever  guying  each  other 
about  the  merits  of  their  two  schools. 
That's  one  good  trait  of  this  family. 
They  have  some  sense  of  humor  and 
can  see  a  joke  clear  across  the  Solomon 
to  the  far  prairie.  Her  room  is  oppo 
site  mine,  and  the  door  is  always  open 
in  the  daytime.  That  room  is  all  one 
symphony  of  Yale  blue;  only  its  white 
"W"  for  Washburn  marks  the  differ 
ence  between  it  and  the  blue  of  my  own 
Yale  den  at  home.  I  spoke  to  Eunice 
about  it  one  day  and  she  said  something 
about  the  founder,  Ichabod  Washburn, 
being  a  product  of  Yale.  But  it  did  n't 
seem  clear  to  me. 

Of  course,  I  told  them  all  about  your 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  29 

wonderful  career  at  Yale  and  how  only 
one  other  member  of  your  class  ever 
out-ranked  you  —  I've  forgotten  that 
fellow's  name  long  ago  —  how  it  was 
always  neck  and  neck  between  you  two. 
Father  Bronson's  eyes  glistened  with 
real  tears  as  I  told  the  old  stories  you 
used  to  tell  me  of  your  college  days  and 
of  this  old  chum  of  yours.  Poor  old 
Bronson!  I  suppose  he  never  had  a 
chance  at  a  thing  like  that  in  his  younger 
years.  But  no  matter,  Father,  it  is  really 
surprising  how  much  of  a  gentleman 
even  a  farmer  like  Bronson  can  be.  He 
is  one  of  the  most  sincere  and  well- 
meaning  men  I  have  ever  known.  He 
is  even  beginning  to  dignify  farming  in 
my  eyes.  And  Eunice  is  just  like  him. 
But  Seth  —  well,  there  was  a  kind  of 
odd  smile  on  his  face  when  I  talked  of 
you.  Jealousy,  I  suppose,  on  account 
of  his  father.  These  poor  Kansas  fel 
lows  can't  help  it. 

I  must  quit  now  and  write  to  mother. 
Her  last  letter  says  Aunt  Prudence  is 
getting  stronger  every  day,  but  she  adds 
that  the  old  lady  is  more  than  ever  de 
termined  not  to  let  her  out  of  sight, 
which  means  a  summer  of  it  for  Madam 
Ellerton,  I  suppose.  She  says  she  gets 
the  letters  I  send  to  you  the  next  mail 
after  you  read  them.  Good  Papa! 
Good-bye,  I'm  doing  fine. 

LEROY 


so  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 


Letter  from  LEROY  ELLERTON 
to  HIS  MOTHER 

T ALTON,  KANSAS,,  May. 
DEAR  MOTHER  MINE  : 

This  is  your  dutiful "  loved  and  only  " 
who  is  writing  to  you  this  exquisite  May 
morning.  While  you  are  shivering  be 
fore  a  wood  fire  down  at  the  beginning 
of  things  in  East  Machias  where  Maine 
starts  in  to  grow  a  United  States,  out 
here  in  the  heart  of  nowhere,  watered 
by  the  Solomon  River,  there  is  a 
boundless  vasty  world  of  sunshine  run 
ning  loose.  And  while  you  are  still 
clinging  to  your  long-sleeved  flannels 
and  keeping  screened  away  from 
draughts,  I  am  sitting  on  the  broad 
northeast  veranda,  letting  the  wind, 
soft  but  full  of  tone,  pour  over  me  like 
the  surf  at  Coney  Island,  and  I  'm  only 
a  little  more  decently  clad  than  a  surf 
bather,  too,  for  I  have  all  my  summer 
regimentals  on  now.  It  is  early  Sum 
mer  here,  —  if  only  my  pen  could  make 
you  feel  its  balmy  breath !  Quite  a  poet 
I  'm  getting  to  be.  Did  n't  know  it  was 
in  me  before.  But  they  say  Kansas 
will  develop  whatever  tendency  to 
crankism  is  in  one's  constitution.  Mine 
seems  to  be  a  sickish  sentimentalism. 
But  it  is  only  to  you,  Mother,  that 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  31 

I  mean  to  let  it  reveal  itself,  although 
Dad  is  such  a  good  fellow,  I  do  turn 
loose  to  him  now  and  then.  But  you 
were  always  my  safety  valve,  Mother, 
and  I  should  have  blown  up  long  ago 
without  you. 

You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to 
hear  from  you,  for  you  can  understand 
me  better  than  Dad  can.  Blessed  old 
Hard  Shell  writes  the  funniest  letters 
to  me.  Seems  to  think  I  '11  die  of  home 
sickness.  I  may  yet,  but  he  can't  hit 
my  homesick  streak.  I  'm  not  quite  the 
martyr  he  takes  me  for.  I  'm  begin 
ning  to  get  settled.  Why,  Mummy 
dear,  Kansas  is  on  the  map,  and  trains 
run  to  New  York  as  well  as  away  from 
it.  John  Ellerton  did  n't  kick  me  clear 
off  the  universe  when  he  shoved  me  over 
the  Alleghany  ridge.  I  '11  tell  him  so 
sometime  when  my  rheumatism  is 
better. 

But  back  to  your  letter.  I  'm  glad 
you  are  so  contented  on  that  stern  and 
rock-bound  upheaval  above  sea  level. 
You  say  that  after  all  you  are  never  un 
happy  up  in  Maine  because  you  love  the 
villages  and  country  ways  and  byways. 
Maybe  I  have  inherited  some  streak  of 
that  thing  myself,  for  I  am  getting 
wonderfully  acclimated  out  here  —  get 
ting  accustomed  to  the  openness  of  this 
valley.  It  is  open,  too.  No  use  to  get 
behind  a  ladder  to  change  your  neck-tie, 
as  we  used  to  say,  for  there  are  too  many 


32  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

folks  on  the  other  side  of  the  ladder. 
Yet  all  sides  of  the  ladder  interest  me 
and  keep  on  doing  it. 

I  must  tell  you  about  Eunice.  She  is 
not  like  any  other  farmer's  girl  I  ever 
saw.  There 's  a  cute  little  curve  a^t  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  that  saves  it  from 
being  too  set.  She 's  got  a  mind  of  her 
own ;  says  she'd  vote  if  she  lived  in  a  big 
city  in  Kansas  where  women  can  do 
that.  But  she  says  it  so  matter-of-fact 
like  and  all,  that  I  believe  she  would 
do  it  gracefully  and  not  be  undigni 
fied  if  she  wanted  to.  She  does  every 
thing  else  that  way,  even  if  she  does  live 
in  this  Wild  West.  But  she  is  wrapped 
up  in  her  music,  is  just  crazy  about  it, 
and  wants  to  go  on  studying  it  some 
where.  All  the  Bronsons  seem  set 
enough  in  their  notions. 

Kansas  seems  to  put  purpose  into 
everybody.  I  confess,  Mother,  it  makes 
me  ashamed  of  myself  sometimes.  I 
don't  seem  ever  to  have  had  a  motive 
for  living.  New  York  just  supplied  my 
outside  life.  Inside  of  me,  I  've  not  be 
gun  to  live  yet. 

Seth,  the  big  son  of  the  home,  is 
bound  to  go  West  and  make  a  mining 
expert  of  himself;  seems  to  know  the 
layers  of  earth  clear  down  to  where  they 
spell  places  with  dashes  instead  of  let 
ters.  (Awful  Leroy!  he  won't  say  that 
any  more. ) 

But  why  can't  he  stay  here,  where 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  33 

he 's  needed  ?  I  'd  stay  with  my  father  — 
if  he  'd  only  let  me.  He 's  thrust  me  out 
into  a  cold,  cold  world.  But  it 's  a  sun 
shiny  world  this  time,  and  Solomon  in 
all  his  glory  was  never  arrayed  as  this 
Solomon  Valley  is  in  the  grandeur  of 
this  May  morning.  Not  that  this  is  any 
finer  than  New  England  or  York  State. 
There's  just  such  an  eternal  lot  more 
of  it  to  be  seen  all  at  once,  it  makes  a 
fellow  catch  his  breath  —  and  dimly 
from  somewhere  comes  up  that  old  say 
ing,  "eye  hath  not  seen,"  etc.  Not 
many  such  places  for  the  eye  to  see,  I  'm 
sure  of  that.  *  *  * 

Those  stars  stand  for  the  auto  honks. 
Think  of  it!  I  just  saved  myself  from 
total  ruin  the  week  after  I  came  here.  I 
had  started  in  one  evening  to  enlarge 
on  the  delights  of  motoring.  It  had 
been  raining  for  an  endless  time  and  I 
was  a  dark  dead  blue.  So  I  had  to  brag 
about  myself  or  swear.  The  sunset  had 
just  rebuilt  the  world,  made  a  new 
heaven  and  a  new  earth  all  out  of  old 
gray  rags  of  clouds  and  a  mud-sodden 
land,  and  a  free  sweep  of  warm  wind 
was  cleaning  house  for  all  out-of-doors. 
Well,  I'd  just  begun  to  brag  about 
some  motoring  I  'd  done  in  my  ancient 
Eastern  life,  when  Father  Bronson  said : 

"Eunice,  you  and  Seth  might  take 
Mr.  Ellerton  out  to  the  hills  with  the 
machine,  this  evening,  if  it  is  not  too 
damp." 


34, 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE 


I  supposed  he  meant  the  sewing  ma 
chine  or  mowing  machine  or  the  sulky 
plough.  I'd  not  been  as  far  as  the  barn 
then.  But  I  had  the  grace  to  let  up  on 
motoring,  —  won't  say  about  swearing, 
but  that  was  under  my  breath,  —  while 
I  resigned  myself  to  my  accursed  fate. 
And  in  three  minutes,  if  Seth  did  n't  run 
out  the  spankingest  big  automobile  — 
Well,  I  nearly  fell  off  the  front  steps. 
And  I've  never  said  "motor"  since. 
*  *  *  There  goes  my  call  again. 

Eunice  is  down  by  the  front  veranda, 
waiting  to  take  me  and  this  letter  over 
to  Talton.  The  R.  F.  Deliverer  passed 
an  hour  ago.  They  really  do  have  R.  F. 
D.'s  out  here  and  mail  daily.  Good  as 
East  Machias  about  that.  I  can  just 
see  Eunice's  hair  and  the  back  of  her 
neck  behind  the  vines  as  she  sits  in  the 
auto.  That  dark  blue  linen  suit  and 
square  sailor  collar  and  the  pile  of  silky 
hair  above  it  look  good  to  me.  So  good 
bye,  dearest  of  Mummies. 
Lovingly, 

LEROY 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  35 

JUNE 

Letter  from  LEROY  ELLERTON 
to  HIS  FATHER 

TALTON,  KANSAS,  June. 
DEAR  FATHER: 

Here  it  is  mid-June  almost  before  we 
can  think.  I  am  so  much  better  I  take 
no  note  of  time.  The  hours  always  drag 
when  one  is  suffering,  and  they  seem  to 
fly  when  we  forget  ourselves.  That's 
what  I've  been  doing.  I  think  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  about  the  time 
at  all  if  your  last  letter  hadn't  had  so 
much  of  condolence  about  my  being 
shut  up  out  here.  That 's  a  good  term 
for  it,  so  we  '11  let  it  go  at  that. 

I  'm  finding  something  new  to  do 
every  day,  and  every  day  I  am  getting 
a  new  power  of  resistance.  This  must 
be  the  best  of  all  seasons  on  these  prai 
ries.  It  quit  raining  back  in  May  and 
there  is  a  clear  blue  dome  ten  trillion 
miles  across,  sloping  down  to  a  level 
green  earth  that  has  no  bound  at  all,  but 
ravels  out  into  a  blur  of  pale  lavender 
or  deep  purple  where  dome  meets  plain. 
Talk  about  Kansas  cyclones !  I  Ve  for 
gotten  the  sound  of  thunder. 

"Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have 

fled? 
In  the  unseared  heavens  they  leave 

no  wake, 

And  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have 
shed"  — 


36 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE 


And  I  have  nearly  forgotten  my  rheu 
matism. 

The  June  days  are  warm  here,  but 
the  nights  are  glorious,  with  always  a 
ripple  of  soft  air  sweeping  up  from  the 
south  when  the  sun  goes  down.  And 
such  sunsets!  Why,  Poppy,  they  are 
gorgeous.  Bronson's  place  is  located 
with  special  regard  for  them,  I  guess. 
Eunice  and  I  watched  the  show  last 
night.  If  I  were  an  artist  I  'd  put  this 
Solomon  Valley  on  canvas  a  mile  across. 
Up  and  down  lie  acre  on  acre  of  heavy 
green  corn  land,  with  golden  wheat 
fields  between,  and  sweeps  of  alfalfa 
with  its  shimmering  purple  bloom  — 
the  most  beautiful  herbage  that  ever 
grew.  And  through  it  all  winds  the 
Solomon  River,  with  its  fringe  of  green 
ery.  Beyond  lie  pastures  with  herds  of 
cattle  and  hay  fields  brown  and  yellow 
with  the  mid-summer  heat. 

Across  this  spread  of  land  the  level 
rays  of  sunset  fling  their  splendor,  while 
far  up  the  sky  a  radiant  glory  of  color 
no  artist  can  ever  paint — well,  that's 
the  Solomon  Valley.  And  stretching 
away  to  the  very  bound  of  the  world, 
fold  on  fold,  is  a  wavy  richness  of 
greens  and  browns  and  gold,  with  pur 
ple  shadows  into  which  it  all  melts  at 
last,  and  the  pink  tinting  overhead 
slowly  softening  into  silvery  cloud  mist. 
It  is  worth  a  journey  to  see.  You  may 
not  care  for  all  this  landscape.  You 
would  if  you  saw  it  as  I  do. 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  37 

The  Bronsons  aren't  half  bad, 
Father.  Eunice  is  a  fine  girl,  really. 
She  can  sing  very  well  —  for  Kansas, 
and  she  rides  still  better.  I  could  n't  get 
very  lonely  with  such  a  wide-awake  girl 
to  keep  me  company.  She  is  the  joy  of 
her  father's  heart,  although  he  is  proud 
of  Seth.  Seth  is  going  on  West  to  Ore 
gon,  or  somewhere  else,  as  soon  as  he 
gets  through  school.  The  young  fellow 
is  silly  about  mining  and  can't  see  that 
he  ought  to  stay  right  here,  that  nothing 
could  be  better  for  him.  But  that 's  just 
the  way  with  some  fellows  —  never  do 
know  what  is  good  for  them.  Why,  the 
longer  I  stay  here,  the  more  I  see  what 
the  ranch  should  mean  to  one  born  to  it. 
Of  course,  it  is  n't  like  the  office  and  all 
that  buying  and  selling  and  loaning  and 
foreclosing  business  you  have  ready  for 
me  when  I  quit  "  doing  time  "  out  here. 
Harvesting  a  thousand  or  so  bushels  of 
wheat  is  n't  done  behind  glass  partitions 
with  onyx-panelled  walls  and  roller-top 
desks  and  glittering  fixtures  and  with  a 
brick-and-mortar  wall  frowning  before 
every  window.  That 's  to  be  my  setting 
when  I  do  business,  while  Seth  here  has 
a  range  such  as  the  wild  cattle  of  the 
plains  once  held,  and  the  eternal  swell 
and  slide  of  all  the  winds  of  heaven. 
Why  should  he  want  to  leave  all  this 
and  go  "  experting"  down  the  black, 
blinding  alleys  of  coal  or  copper  de 
posits  under  the  crust  of  this  beautiful 
earth?  Even  I  know  better  than  that. 


38  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

This  farm  life  appeals  to  me  more  and 
more. 

But  that 's  enough  about  Seth.  It  is 
Eunice  who  interests  me.  She  does  sing 
beautifully,  and  her  one  foolish  notion  — 
just  like  Seth's  going  West  —  is  to  go 
to  New  York  and  have  her  voice  trained 
and  then  to  go  abroad  maybe,  for  more 
training,  and  then  to  sing  to  crowded 
houses.  A  career!  What  does  a 
woman — especially  a  Kansas  woman 
and  a  farmer's  daughter  at  that  —  need 
with  one  anyhow?  And  Eunice  is  a 
Jayhawker,  all  right.  I  like  to  tease  her 
about  the  West,  she  is  so  loyal  to  her 
State.  I've  ridiculed  everything  here 
just  to  see  how  she  '11  fight  for  Kansas. 
She  is  so  handsome  when  she  is  a  little 
bit  excited.  Then  her  brown  eyes  are 
full  of  fire  and  there  is  a  pink  flush  on 
her  cheeks.  She  is  fair,  I  told  you,  with 
curly  golden  brown  hair  and  the  softest 
big  brown  eyes. 

Tuesday,  Eunice  said,  "  If  you  will 
go  with  me  to-morrow  afternoon,  I  '11 
show  you  something  you'd  never  find 
duplicated  in  your  York  State  nor  any 
other  little  Atlantic  seaboard  reserva 
tion." 

"What  is  that?  "I  asked. 

"  A  forgotten  bit  of  the  sea,"  Eunice 
answered. 

Late  the  next  afternoon,  we  were  off 
for  a  long  spin  to  a  little  town  miles 
away,  where  she  had  an  errand  of  some 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  39 

sort.  We  had  an  early  supper  at  the 
hotel  and  then  we  took  in  the  town  with 
its  average  number  of  uninteresting 
things  and  one  or  two  odd  features  such 
as  every  little  town  possesses  for  its 
own. 

On  our  way  home  Eunice  turned 
from  the  main  road  to  show  me  that  for 
gotten  bit  of  the  sea  she  had  promised. 
It  was  a  beautiful  evening,  with 
such  a  sunset  as  I  have  described.  And 
Eunice  —  but  no  matter. 

What  we  went  out  for  to  see  was  a 
wonderful  welling  up  of  salt  water  just 
like  the  clear  green  waves  off  Long 
Island.  A  huge  mound  of  earth  thirty 
feet  high  and  a  hundred  across  forms  the 
cup  which  the  water  fills  to  the  brim. 
The  depth  of  this  pool  is  only  guessed 
at.  So  here  it  lies,  by  long  secret  under 
ground  ways  reaching  out  to  the  sea  or 
some  salt  spot  a  thousand  miles  away 
maybe.  ^Eons  and  aeons  ago  the  sea 
waves  swept  over  Kansas,  I  am  told  by 
my  geology.  And  then  came  its  up 
heavals  and  down-settlings,  its  stand- 
patting  and  boss-busting  and  machine- 
ruling,  and  all  the  whole  grand  mix-up. 
In  which  mix  the  sea  went  off  and  forgot 
this  little  bit  of  it.  Forgot  the  combina 
tion  on  the  cut-off.  Or  maybe  the 
plumbing  of  this  old  earth  was  as  de 
fective  then  as  a  New  York  flat  is 
to-day.  Anyhow,  this  precious,  clear, 
green  pool  of  salty  water  was  forgot- 


40 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE 


ten;  and  year  on  year,  century  on  cen 
tury,  rising  and  falling  like  the  tides  of 
the  ocean,  it  dimpled  under  the  summer 
winds  and  smiled  back  at  the  skies  above 
it.  Like  the  pioneers  of  this  Solomon 
Valley  it  defied  the  drouth  to  burn  it 
out,  or  the  winter  blizzard  to  lock  it  up 
with  ice.  And  the  Indians  came  and 
called  it  Waconda — Spirit  Water  — 
and  worshipped  ever  what  they  could 
not  understand. 

Eunice  and  I  sat  down  beside  this 
spring  and  saw  the  full  moon  swing  up 
the  eastern  sky  and  flood  the  land  with 
its  chastened  radiance.  All  the  Solo 
mon  Valley  lay  like  a  dream  of  peace 
under  its  spell.  If  I  live  a  thousand 
years,  I'll  never  see  another  moonrise 
like  that  nor  another  such  valley  of  rest 
and  sweet  dreamy  quiet  beauty,  until 
the  gates  of  Paradise  swing  out  for  me. 

And,  Father,  nothing  in  that  scene 
fitted  so  well  as  that  Kansas  girl,  Eunice 
Bronson,  in  her  pretty  white  dress,  with 
the  wild  rose  bloom  on  her  cheek.  Some 
how  the  fever  of  the  world  slips  off  out 
here  sometimes  and  we  get  down  to  the 
real  worth  of  things,  without  so  much  of 
sham  and  show.  But  this  letter  is  al 
ready  miles  too  long,  so  good-night. 
Aff .  yours, 

ROY 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  41 


AUGUST 

Letter  from  LEEOY  ELLERTON 
to  HIS  FATHER 

T ALTON,  KANSAS,  August. 
DEAR  FATHER  : 

I  have  neglected  you  too  long,  but  you 
know  when  I  dont  write,  I  'm  all  right. 
I  am  getting  better  all  the  time,  al 
though  I  'm  not  quite  well  enough  to  go 
home  yet.  You  see,  Father  dear,  this 
is  a  whole  lot  better  country  than  you 
know  anything  about  back  in  New 
York.  Of  course,  you  were  out  here 
once.  I  don't  wonder  you  lost  your 
rheumatism.  There  is  no  place  for  it 
here.  Why,  right  now  New  York  must 
be  like  a  bake  oven.  Oh,  but  I  know 
how  hot  it  is!  Of  course,  it  is  hot  here 
too,  but  it  bakes  out  the  rheumatism. 

Your  little  note  this  morning  brought 
good  news.  To  think  of  Aunt  Pru 
getting  her  grip  on  things  again,  for 
getting  her  aches  and  pains,  and  bun 
dling  mother  off  to  Europe  for  the  rest 
of  the  season  as  a  reward  for  caring  for 
her!  I  guess  the  old  lady  is  better- 
hearted,  after  all,  than  we  give  her  credit 
for  being.  Glorious  for  Mummy,  is  n't 
it?  And  she  deserves  it  ten  times  over. 
But  to  come  back  to  things  earthy  — 
that's  myself  —  you  are  wrong  this 


42  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

time.  It  didn't  make  me  a  bit  un 
happy  that  it  was  n't  I  who  was  sailing 
toward  Europe.  We  can't  do  all  we 
want  to  do,  of  course.  It's  much  ado 
with  some  of  us  to  do  what  we  ought. 
There's  Seth  Bronson  with  his  nose 
underground  smelling  out  rock  forma 
tions,  when  the  call  of  the  soil  ought  to 
be  music  to  him.  I  can  picture  every 
day  what  a  fellow  could  do  with  Seth's 
opportunity  here.  I  think  sometimes 
he  half  envies  me  what 's  coming  to  me 
soon — the  city  pavement  and  sky 
scraper  structures,  and  the  jostling 
human  herd  roaring  down  those  gloomy 
cracks  that  cities  call  streets.  There 
are  no  scrapers  out  here.  The  sky  is 
too  everlasting  far  up.  And  only  the 
great  hand  of  God  Almighty  can  fling 
the  little  cirri  cloud  flakes  in  groups 
that  slope  toward  the  zenith,  or  pile  the 
black  stupendous  thunder  folds  against 
the  western  horizon  and  illumine  them 
through  and  through  with  electric 
splendor,  the  token  of  His  own  glory. 
I  never  saw  much  of  that  from 
your  office  windows  at  home.  The 
great  lack  with  city-reared  children, 
I've  figured  out,  is  that  we  never  see 
anything  but  the  work  of  men's  hands. 
The  grandest  structures  we  may  watch 
go  up  from  a  hole  in  the  ground.  All 
the  shipping  and  ship-building  is  swung 
by  machinery  and  some  man  is  at  the 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  43 

crane's  end  guiding  the  pulleys. 
And  every  pretty  park  and  bit  of 
natural  beauty  has  the  water-works 
back  of  it  and  some  sooty  fellow  in  the 
engine  room  controlling  it  all.  He  can 
give  and  take  away,  can  make  a  world 
of  blue  grass  and  blossoms,  or  —  turn 
off  the  power  —  and  leave  only  burr- 
grown  sand.  It  takes  the  great  forests 
or  a  stretch  of  prairie  land,  something 
only  the  Big  Architect  can  build,  to  put 
a  little  reality  into  a  fellow's  mind,  and 
anchor  him  to  something  permanent. 
Maybe,  Daddy,  you  have  said  some  of 
this  to  me  before,  but  it  did  n't  stick  till 
I  worked  it  out  myself  here.  This  is  n't 
a  Robinson  Crusoe  island.  I  don't  go 
any  on  the  hermit  stunt.  Neither 
is  it  "the  madding  crowd's  ignoble 
strife"  and  strut.  It  is  the  peace  half 
way  between  the  two,  and  Seth  Bronson 
is  an  idiot,  that 's  all.  He  can't  hear  the 
message  of  every  growing  stalk  of 
wheat,  and  the  music  of  mowing  ma 
chines,  and  know  the  freedom  from  the 
crazy  crowd  forever  at  his  heels.  One's 
work  counts  on  the  farm  with  Nature 
for  a  perpetual  partner,  putting  up  the 
big  share  of  the  capital,  and  with  time 
now  and  then  to  stop  and  live,  while  the 
eternal  wrangle  of  men  and  man-made 
things  goes  scrambling  and  screaming 
on  in  the  congested  centres  of  human 
population.  Green  as  I  am,  I  know  this 


4*  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

much,  and  I  say  again  that  Seth  is  an 
idiot — fifty-seven  varieties  of  an  idiot, 
and  I  begrudge  the  ink  it  takes  to  dot 
the  i  when  I  write  his  title.  He  may  go 
to  *  *  *  the  stars.  That  is  n't  pro 
fanity.  And  I'll  write  about  better 
subjects. 

I  must  tell  you,  Daddy,  what  a  glori 
ous  j  aunt  we  had  this  week.  I  Ve  teased 
Eunice  about  the  little  shrubs  they  call 
trees  out  here.  I've  told  her  over  and 
over  about  the  real  forests  up  in  York 
State,  while  she  has  been  saying  all 
Summer, 

"  Wait  till  August,  and  we  will  go  to 
see  some  real  trees,  grand  old  oaks." 

I  asked  her  if  they  were  of  this 
Spring's  planting,  and  would  be  ripe  in 
August. 

But  she  would  only  say  —  "  Wait  and 


see." 


We  are  having  long  and  clear  days. 
The  sky  is  all  fine  gold  and  the  earth  is 
a  shading  from  yellow  green  to  the  deep 
est  brown.  This  thin  air  just  suits  me 
and  the  nights  have  that  dry  soft  breath 
that  cools  but  never  chills.  Let  me  see, 
was  it  Leroy  Ellerton  who  used  to 
dread  the  damp  night  air  on  account  of 
the  rheumatism? 

But  about  the  trees.  Eunice  and  I 
had  gone  miles  and  miles  up  the  Solo 
mon  Valley  for  a  long  picnic  day.  And, 
Father,  we  did  see  such  a  grove  of  beau- 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  45 

tif  ul  oaks  as  you  'd  never  think  a  flat  old 
prairie  could  grow.  They  were  tucked 
away  in  a  little  valley,  where  a  muddy 
creek  comes  winding  down  to  the  Solo 
mon  River.  You  could  hardly  guess, 
unless  you  followed  the  stream,  what 
was  hidden  in  that  deep  valley.  The 
dip  and  swell  of  the  prairie  showed  us 
only  a  line  of  green  leafiness,  until  sud 
denly  we  were  at  the  gateway  of  a  grove 
sheltering  a  summer  assembly  camp 
ground. 

Nestling  under  the  shadows  of  the 
oaks  were  tents  and  tents,  the  out-door 
homes  of  the  folk  all  round  about  this 
region,  who  come  here  every  August- 
time.  They  were  good  to  look  at,  too, 
these  inhabitants  of  the  Plains,  for,  to 
be  square  with  you,  Father,  these  folks 
are  so  much  more  worth  while  than  I 
ever  thought  could  be  out  here  that  I  'm 
going  to  be  honest  enough  to  say  so.  Of 
course,  there  are  none  of  them  quite  like 
Eunice,  but  that 's  another  story.  The 
earth  is  the  Lord's  here,  all  right,  but  the 
fulness  thereof  is  piling  up  in  the  banks 
in  little  towns  like  Talton.  Friends 
of  the  Bronsons  that  I  met  at  this 
Chautauqua  affair  do  very  much  like 
real  Easterners;  they  send  their  chil 
dren  to  college,  and  they  don't  seem  to 
think  much  about  it  if  some  member  of 
the  family  goes  to  Europe  for  a  summer 
vacation.  I  've  not  done  that  yet,  you 


46  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

may  recall.  Say,  Dad,  if  you  know  of 
any  young  city  chap  who  wants  to  go 
where  he  can  patronize  the  benighted 
community  by  his  presence,  don't  send 
him  this  way,  please.  When  Eunice's 
friends  spoke  in  that  commonplace  fash 
ion  about  going  abroad,  all  I  could  say 
was  that,  "Mother  is  travelling  in 
Switzerland  now,"  or,  "My  father's 
business  takes  him  over  often."  Re 
flected  glory  beats  no  glory  at  all,  and 
I  just  couldn't  meet  all  those  friends 
of  the  Bronsons  as  a  provincial,  even  a 
New  York  provincial. 

There  were  many  interesting  things 
that  day  for  me,  but  what  struck  me 
most  forcibly  was  the  law-abiding  spirit 
of  the  crowd  in  that  assembly  park.  It 
was  no  beer-garden  set.  Why,  I  can't 
bear  the  thought  of  some  of  our  resorts, 
now  that  I  suppose  1 11  be  seeing  them 


soon.  *  *  * 


All  this  before  I  get  to  the  trees. 
Ages  ago,  dense  forests  must  have  cov 
ered  this  region,  which  some  force  later 
reduced  to  a  grass  land,  and  the  prairie 
fires  kept  it  thus.  Only  this  winding 
creek  had  crept  lovingly  about  these 
great  oak  trees  —  encircling  them  penin 
sular  fashion,  shielding  them  from  the 
flames.  Through  long  sunny  days  and 
soft  dark  nights  in  years  that  rolled  up 
centuries,  the  beautiful  trees  grew  and 
spread  their  branches.  Deep  through 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  47 

the  black  earth  they  struck  strong  roots 
that  held  firm  in  the  day  of  the  cyclone's 
wrath.  They  must  be  very  old;  they 
were  growing  here,  I'm  sure,  when  the 
Pilgrims  set  foot  on  Plymouth  Rock. 
And  earlier,  too,  when  Coronado  and 
his  Spanish  knights  wandered  up  to  the 
Smoky  Hill  River  country  in  search  of 
Quivira  and  its  fabled  gold-paved  cities. 
They  are  fine  and  venerable  looking 
enough  to  have  been  lifting  their  young 
green  boughs  to  the  rains  and  bending 
against  the  hot  winds  when  Columbus 
sighted  land  that  October  morning  four 
hundred  years  ago. 

You  may  think  I  'm  getting  poetical. 
It  is  in  the  air  out  here.  I  tell  you, 
Father,  there 's  nothing  new  and  crude 
about  this  Solomon  Valley.  It  is  old 
and  time-seasoned. 

That  was  a  glorious  day  we  spent  un 
der  the  oaks,  with  their  grand  green 
heads  and  their  hundred-foot  spread  of 
shade.  I  Ve  heard  you  talk  about  your 
boyhood  up  in  Vermont  enough  to  know 
how  you  would  feel  in  such  a  place  for 
one  long,  lazy  August  day.  On  the  way 
back  to  Bronsons,  we  talked  about  the 
old  oak  trees  and  the  different  things 
they  mean  to  different  minds.  One  of  the 
Yale  men  used  to  tell  us,  in  his  classes, 
how  we  made  the  world  each  for  him 
self,  and  how  we  must  each  read  out 
and  then  act  out  his  own  destiny.  It 


48  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

all  came  back  to  me  in  that  homewa-rd 
ride,  as  many  another  long- forgotten 
lesson  will  come  sometimes. 

We  didn't  do  any  record-breaking 
speeding  that  evening.  It  was  too  good 
to  live  slowly.  The  Solomon  Valley  is 
in  its  late  summer  grandeur,  and  with 
the  purple  mist  of  evening  hanging  over 
it,  the  whole  thing  slipped  from  a  wide 
landscape  through  a  soft  blur  of  helio 
trope  twilight  into  a  black  velvety  night. 
Eunice  is  artistic  enough  to  see  all  this. 
She  is  not  like  Seth.  While  he  is  peer 
ing  underground,  her  head  is  among  the 
stars.  She  has  her  dream  of  a  musical 
career  cut  and  basted  and  fitted  on. 
I  Ve  found  that  out,  all  right.  Coming 
home  we  turned  aside  again  to  visit  that 
spring,  the  one  the  Indians  called  Wa- 
conda.  Whatever  it  may  have  meant 
to  them,  it  had  a  message  for  me.  The 
hour  was  that  dim,  shadowy  time 

"  When  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 

Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  the  strife 

Slow  rounding  into  calm" 

The  sharp  edges  of  the  day  are  soft 
ened  and  the  world  is  made  of  curves 
and  harmonious  tones  of  color,  pink  and 
gray  and  amethyst.  Looking  out  to 
ward  the  Solomon  River  winding  by 
black  shadowed  corn  fields  and  gray- 
green  meadows,  I  pictured  the  day  when 
the  red  man  ruled  here  and  this  pool  of 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  49 

salt  sea  water  was  his  shrine.  His  dead 
lay  buried  in  the  bottom  lands  by  the 
slow-moving  Solomon  and  he  stood 
on  this  huge  mound  and  sung  his  weird 
death-songs,  and  made  offerings  of  beads 
and  arrows  and  trophies  to  the  waters, 
that  the  Spirit  of  the  Waters  would  be 
kind  to  his  departed  ones.  Did  he  lift 
his  face  in  hope  to  the  wide  heavens 
above  him  and  did  he  hear  in  the  wan 
dering  winds,  that  ebb  and  swell 
across  the  plains,  a  voice  that  spoke  of 
peace  and  the  Great  Chieftain's  promise 
of  a  future  life? 

And  then  I  thought  farther  back  to 
the  day  when  the  sea  had  left  this  bit 
of  itself,  one  lonely  gem  of  emerald 
waters,  upon  the  desert  plains.  And  I 
thought  how  down  the  years,  through  a 
hundred  hundred  generations  of  men 
it  had  kept  its  place,  with  all  the  sea's 
traditions,  color,  taste,  and  motion,  ris 
ing  and  falling  regularly  like  the  ocean 
tides,  here  in  the  heart  of  the  great 
green  plains,  a  thousand  miles  from  any 
ocean  waters.  And  I  told  myself  a 
reason  for  it  all.  The  mystery  of 
Waconda  and  its  world-old,  world- wide 
lesson  came  to  me  like  a  revelation.  I 
wondered  what  it  meant  to  Eunice.  We 
had  read  the  same  story  in  the  old  oak 
trees.  When  I  spoke  to  her  of  the  red 
man,  and  the  origin  of  the  spring,  she 
said: 

"We  have  another  notion  of  the  In- 


50 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE 


dians  out  here,  but  I,  too,  love  this  place 
which  they  must  have  loved.  Waconda 
has  a  story  for  me,  a  mystery  I  have 
never  yet  fathomed.  I  wonder  why  it 
is  here  so  far  from  the  great  sea,  to 
which  it  belongs,  and  if  it  does  not 
yearn,  after  the  manner  of  inanimate 
things,  for  the  great  heaving  ocean  of 
which  it  could  be  a  part. 

"I  can  understand  it  better,  maybe, 
because  I,  too,  am  held  here  in  this  val 
ley  by  ties  hard  to  break,  when  all  the 
time  I  am  yearning  to  get  out  into  the 
world,  to  study  and  work,  and  then,  as 
a  singer,  to  give  delight  to  lovers  of 
song." 

I  wanted  to  tell  her  the  message  the 
waters  were  bringing  to  me.  But  it 
was  n't  the  time  then.  She  is  so  set  on 
this  notion  of  a  musical  career. 

"We  can  never  see  with  other  peo 
ple's  eyes  in  this  world,"  she  said  when 
we  stood  up  for  a  last  look  at  the  valley, 
all  tenderly  gray,  deepening  into  pur 
ple.  "  Waconda  tells  you  one  story  and 
me  another,  and  they  may  be  very  dif 
ferent.  If  you  should  ask  Seth,  he 
would  give  you  a  mineral  analysis,  slick 
and  comprehensive.  To  Father,  it  is  a 
tragedy.  He  was  too  near  to  the  time 
when  this  soil  was  red  with  the  martyr 
blood  of  the  first  white  settlers.  I  am 
glad  we  are  a  generation  away  from  all 
that,  and  can  look  beyond  it  to  the  mys- 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  51 

tery  of  old  Waconda  of  the  long,  long 
ago." 

All  the  way  home,  Eunice  sang  sweet 
ballads,  Indian  love  songs,  and  snatches 
from  an  Arapahoe  melody: 

ft  Waconda,  hear  us,  hear  us! 

Waconda,  Oh,  behold  us! 

Like  the  embers  dying,  O  Waconda! 

Like  the  pale  mist  flying,  O  Wa 
conda! 

Wood  and  prairie  fade  before  us, 

Hills  and  streams  our  Fathers  gave 
us, 

Home,  and  friends  of  home,  O  Wa 
conda! 

And  thy  children  roam,  O  Waconda! 

Like  the  weary  winds,  homeless  cry 
ing." 

Her  voice  is  beautiful,  but  it  seems  to 
fit  these  open  spaces  more  than  it  would 
the  crowded,  hemmed-in  opera  houses. 
That 's  her  business,  though,  not  mine. 

Good-night.  There 's  a  lot  of  doings 
planned  ahead  and  I  must  get  my 
beauty  sleep. 

Affectionately, 

ROY 


52  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

SEPTEMBER 

Letter  from  JOHN  ELLERTON  to 
DANIEL  BRONSON 

NEW  YORK  CITY,  September. 
MY  DEAR  OLD  DAN: 

Roy's  case  is  very  hopeful.  Why, 
he 's  a  credit  to  me ;  learns  faster  than  I 
thought  he  could ;  writes  like  he  had  to 
instruct  his  green  old  father  concern 
ing  the  merits  of  your  family.  You 
must  be  a  splendid  teacher.  The  joke 
is  on  the  cub,  of  course.  He's  got  as 
bad  a  case  of  Kansas  fever  as  he  had  of 
New  York  rheumatism.  Now,  watch 
him  squirm  when  I  write  to  him  to  come 
home. 

You  have  carried  him  over  the  slough 
as  you  used  to  carry  me  when  I  was 
helpless  with  rheumatism,  you  blessed 
old  son  of  a  horse  thief.  Just  as  you 
carried  me  over  the  rough  places  at 

Yale"  Yours, 

JOHN  ELLERTON 

P.  S.  Mrs.  Ellerton  is  in  Europe 
now.  Will  spend  the  Winter  on  the 
Continent. 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  53 

Letter  from  JOHN  ELLERTON  to 
HIS  SON  LEROY 

NEW  YORK,,  September. 
DEAR  ROY: 

Your  six  months  is  nearly  up,  —  only 
two  weeks  more.  On  your  own  confes 
sion  your  rheumatism  left  you  in  Au 
gust,  but  I  wanted  you  to  be  sure  of 
it.  You  must  be  very  tired  of  the  Bron- 
son  outfit  by  this  time,  so  I  write  to  tell 
you  to  come  home  at  once.  I  sail  for 
Liverpool  the  sixteenth.  Come  as  soon 
as  you  get  this,  and  we  can  go  together. 
You  might  spend  the  Fall  in  Italy  with 
your  mother.  That  would  just  suit  you. 
You  need  n't  answer.  Come. 
Your  loving  father, 

JOHN  ELLERTON 


54  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 


Letter  from  LEROY  ELLERTON 
to  HIS  FATHER 

TALTON,  KANSAS,  September. 
DEAR  DADDY  : 

What  's  the  blooming  matter  with  you, 
anyhow?  And  why  did  you  ever  think 
I'd  want  to  spend  a  glorious  Autumn 
in  such  a  Dago  land  as  Italy  ?  I  have  n't 
asked  for  a  reprieve,  have  I  ?  I  'm  will 
ing  to  serve  out  my  sentence  here.  You 
have  gone  galumphing  off  to  Liverpool 
a  dozen  times  without  me;  and  mother 
has  been  in  Maine  in  the  Summers  or 
in  Florida  in  the  Winters,  leaving  me 
an  orphan,  since  I  was  sixteen.  Kansas 
is  just  in  its  glory  now.  They  say  the 
Octobers  are  splendid  here.  I  can  be 
lieve  it,  and  I'm  writing  to  ask  for  an 
extension  of  my  sentence  of  six  months, 
on  account  of  bad  behavior. 

You  know  I  came  West  under  pro 
test.  Now,  why  do  you  insist  on  cutting 
off  two  weeks  of  the  time  just  when  this 
old  earth  is  at  its  finest?  You  can't 
know  in  smoky,  noisy,  rushing  New 
York,  where  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars, 
the  changing  seasons,  and  everything 
beautiful  is  lost  in  the  crazy,  reeling 
masses  of  people  and  mountains  of  brick 
walls,  —  you  can't  know  what  this  time 
of  the  year  is  like  out  here. 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  55 

"All  the  rich  and  gorgeous  glintings 
Merging  into  matchless  tintings, 
As  the  summer  blossoms  dwindle,, 
And  the  autumn  landscapes  kindle, 
Setting  vale  and  upland  flaming 
In  a  glory  past  all  naming." 

That's  the  Solomon  Valley  in  Octo 
ber,  and  a  myriad  changing  hues  make 
the  landscape  radiant  with  beauty. 
Everything  is  arranged  for  three  or 
four  weeks  ahead.  When  you  see 
mother,  tell  her  I  'm  the  best  I  Ve  been 
in  three  years.  I  Ve  got  the  recupera 
tive  power  of  Aunt  Pru. 

When  I  read  your  letter  to  Eunice 
she  looked  a  little  disappointed,  I 
thought,  but  when  I  told  her  I  should 
ask  for  a  stay  of  execution  she  only 
laughed  and  recommended  me  to  Italy. 
Mr.  Bronson  is  waiting  to  take  this  let 
ter  to  Talton.  Hope  you  will  have  a 
fair  voyage  to  Liverpool,  but  I  can't 
possibly  join  you  now. 

Yours, 

ROY 


56  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

Special  Delivery  Letter  from  JOHN 
ELLERTON  to  HIS  SON 

NEW  YORK,  September. 
DEAR  ROY: 

I  have  put  off  sailing  until  the 
twenty-first,  so  you  can  get  here  in  time 
to  go  with  me.  Now  don't  think  your 
father  too  blind  not  to  see  that  you  are 
merely  frittering  away  your  time  with  a 
green  young  Kansas  girl.  You  are 
born  and  bred  to  the  city  and  you  went 
out  to  that  God-forsaken  Solomon  Val 
ley  only  to  get  rid  of  your  rheumatism. 
Now  that  it  is  gone,  you  must  begin  the 
life  of  a  New  York  business  man  in  real 
earnest.  You  can  spend  the  Fall  in 
Italy.  That  is  your  final  polish.  Then 
the  grind  begins  for  you.  I  need  you 
in  my  office  now  and  as  soon  as  we  get 
home  from  this  trip  abroad,  you  and  I 
will  make  a  firm  that  will  cut  rock  in 
this  great,  busy,  rushing  city.  Don't 
write,  but  come. 

Your  loving  father, 

J.  E. 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  57 

Special  Delivery  Letter  from  LEROY 
ELLERTON  to  HIS  FATHER 

TALTON,  KANSAS,,  September. 
DEAR  FATHER: 

Your  "  special "  got  here  all  right.  I 
had  my  plans  all  set  for  another  month, 
but  I  am  obedient,  if  I  'm  anything.  It 
is  too  late  for  me  to  make  the  twenty- 
first.  I'll  follow  on  the  next  steamer.  I 
told  Eunice  last  night  what  you  said 
about  my  staying  in  New  York.  You 
need  not  be  uneasy  about  that.  She  is  as 
willing  I  should  be  in  that  big  human 
maelstrom  as  you  are  eager  to  fasten 
me  there.  I  found  that  out  without  her 
knowing  it.  I  had  thought  —  but  never 
mind.  I  did  n't  tell  her  what  you  wrote 
about  her  being  a  "  green  Kansas  girl." 
I'll  write  you  at  Liverpool  and  join  you 
there  later. 

Yours, 

ROY 


58  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

Telegram 

LEROY  ELLERTON, 
TALTON,  KANSAS. 

I  sail  the  twenty-fourth.     Come  at 
once. 

J.E. 

Telegram 

JOHN  ELLERTON, 

NEW  YORK  CITY. 

Can't  make  it. 

ROY 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  59 


NOVEMBER 

Letter  from  JOHN  ELLERTON  to 
DANIEL  BRONSON 

LIVERPOOL 

DANIEL  BRONSON,, 

T ALTON,  KANSAS,  U.  S.  A. 
DEAR  DAN  : 

I  can't  tell  you  how  I  regret  missing 
your  letter  which  Leroy  sent  on  to  me 
here. 

Had  I  received  it  sooner,  I  could  have 
cabled  Roy  to  stay  in  New  York  until 
after  your  daughter  Eunice  should 
arrive.  He  could  have  made  her  feel  at 
home  at  once. 

You  see,  I  had  to  come  on  here  with 
out  Roy,  and  when  he  reached  New 
York  from  the  West,  a  cablegram  from 
me  kept  him  from  sailing  at  once.  I 
had  to  leave  some  business  for  him  to 
look  after.  I  had  already  wired  for  him 
to  come  on  before  I  received  the  letter 
of  yours  asking  me  to  look  after  Miss 
Eunice.  And  he  will  be  on  the  ocean 
when  she  reaches  the  city.  But  I  have 
sent  word  to  friends  of  ours  who  will 
meet  her  and  do  all  any  one  could  do  for 
her,  I  am  sure,  except  possibly  Mrs. 
Ellerton,  if  she  were  at  home.  She  and 
Roy  will  spend  the  next  two  months  in 
Italy. 


60  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

After  all  you  did  for  Roy,  this  is  a 
poor  return  to  you  and  Miss  Eunice, 
and  you  know  how  sincerely  I  regret  it. 
I  hope  your  daughter  may  like  the  city 
as  well  as  Roy  seemed  to  like  Kansas 
last  Summer.  I  haven't  seen  him  yet, 
but  look  for  him  on  the  next  steamer. 

Yours  faithfully, 

JOHN  ELLERTON 

P.  S.  We  will  all  be  back  in  March 
or  April  and  if  we  don't  show  Eunice 
a  good  time,  it  will  be  the  fault  of  New 
York,  not  of  the  Ellerton  family. 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  6i 


Letter  from  EUNICE  BRONSON, 

New  York,  to  DANIEL  BRON- 

SON,  Kansas. 

NEW  YORK,  November. 
MY  DEAR  FATHER: 

I  reached  N.  Y.  all  right  and  found 
friends  of  the  Ellertons  waiting  for  me, 
who  took  me  to  the  Conservatory  of 
Music  at  once.  I  am  nicely  settled  and 
I  know  I  shall  be  as  happy  here  as  I 
can  be  anywhere  away  from  you.  The 
home  on  the  Solomon  seems  pretty 
good  to  me  to-night.  I  am  homesick 
for  Kansas  for  a  minute.  But  only  for 
a  minute.  The  teachers  here  are 
full  of  praise  for  my  work,  and  the 
promise  of  my  future.  Oh,  if  I  could 
only  fill  a  great  opera  house  with  my 
song  until  the  very  rafters  rang  with 
applause!  I  hope  my  ambition  isn't 
sinful,  because  I  know  I  should  be  giv 
ing  the  sweetest  pleasure  to  music-hun 
gry  hearts.  And  why  should  not  my 
ambition  be  fulfilled,  if  I  put  all  my 
strength  into  my  work?  Since  I  was 
just  a  slip  of  a  girl,  I  have  been  looking 
forward  to  this  day  when  I  should  have 
the  opportunity  to  try  my  powers. 
Even  in  the  time  when  coming  East  to 
study  seemed  a  wild  impossibility  for  a 
Kansas  girl,  because  we  hadn't  the 
money  then,  and  New  York  was  such  a 
far-away  thing,  frowning  coldly  on  a 


62  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

farmer's  daughter  from  the  West.  But 
now,  oh,  Father,  I  'm  walking  on  the 
cloud-tops,  I  'm  so  happy  to  be  here  in 
this  whirl  of  real  life.  If  it  was  n't  for 
you  and  Seth  I  'd  forget  there  ever  was 
a  Solomon  Valley. 

It  is  so  good  of  you,  Father  dear,  to 
let  me  come,  when  the  house  must  be 
lonely,  with  only  a  housekeeper  in  it. 
You  realize,  for  you  have  lived  here,  how 
great  it  is  for  me  to  get  away  from  the 
farm  and  the  narrow  life  on  the  prairie, 
and  to  be  in  this  wonderful  city  where 
they  do  things.  Buy  to-day,  and  sell  to 
morrow;  not  plant  in  September  —  and 
maybe  —  after  a  long  Winter  and 
longer  Spring,  late  in  June  garner  in 
the  harvest  as  we  do  our  wheat.  Pro 
vided  always  that  the  drouth  and  the 
winds  and  the  fly  —  and  the  May  floods 
—  have  been  merciful. 

I  can  see  your  eyes  twinkle  as  you 
say: 

"  It  is  good  wheat  money  that  is  send 
ing  my  daughter  to  New  York." 

It  isn't  wheat  money  that  keeps  this 
city  on  the  everlasting  jump,  I  am  sure, 
and  the  queer  thing  in  all  this  to  me  is 
that  I  seem  to  feel  at  home  in  it.  I  do 
believe  that  somewhere  back  in  some 
past  incarnation  that  Theosophists  un 
derstand  (I  don't),  I  do  believe  that 
I  was  a  real  city  girl,  born  and  bred. 
Of  course,  I  'm  a  Jayhawker  still,  but 
it  is  just  glorious  here.  I  know  I'm 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  63 

coming  into  my  own,  into  freedom  and 
opportunity,  into  the  busy  pulsing  life 
of  the  great  tides  of  humanity  that 
surge  these  streets  as  the  waters  of  the 
Atlantic  surge  up  against  its  shores. 
And  I  am  a  part  of  it  all,  instead  of 
being  tied  to  the  prairie  like  poor  lonely 
little  Waconda  Springs,  lost  and  for 
gotten  by  the  big  ocean  to  which  it  be 
longs. 

And  Seth  is  gone  too.  The  call  of 
the  West  was  as  strong  for  him  as  the 
call  of  the  East  for  me.  He  has  sent 
me  a  perfectly  grand  letter  from  the 
Columbia  River  country.  No  use  talk 
ing,  Father,  one  or  the  other  of  us  will 
yet  pull  you  away  from  the  ranch. 
Which  pole  of  the  magnet  will  be  the 
stronger,  I  wonder. 

Your  loving 

EUNICE 

P.  S. — You  would  never  guess  whom 
I  saw  this  morning.  I  was  hurrying 
up  to  the  Conservatory.  The  elevator 
was  crowded,  and,  just  as  some  one 
pushed  me  rudely  —  I'm  not  fast 
enough  for  New  York  yet  —  I  found  an 
arm  put  out  to  protect  me,  and  in  a 
moment  the  crowd  had  pressed  me  so 
close  to  Leroy  Ellerton  I  could  hardly 
see  his  face.  He  put  his  arm  between 
me  and  the  crowd  to  shield  me.  I  was 
so  glad  to  see  him,  for  I  am  a  bit  lonely 


64  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

here,  when  I  look  for  a  familiar  face  in 
the  crowd. 

I  thought  he  went  abroad  in  October, 
but  it  seems  he  didn't  go.  He  said  he 
had  to  stay  here  and  look  after  his 
father's  business,  said  he  had  to  give  up 
all  that  beautiful  trip  to  Italy  he  had 
told  you  and  me  about  before  he  left 
Talton  in  September.  How  long  ago 
it  seems  now  since  I  was  at  home  and 
Leroy  was  our  guest.  He  is  coming 
Sunday  to  take  me  to  hear  a  great 
soloist  at  one  of  the  big  churches.  One 
has  such  opportunities  for  those  things 
here.  Oh,  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  it  more 
and  more.  But  when  it  comes  to  say 
ing  good-bye,  dear  Papa,  I  am  not  real 
sure  about  that  past  incarnation.  But 
let  it  stand.  I  remember  what  you  said 
when  I  left  home:  "  If  I  would  study 
hard  and  if  I  liked  it  here,  I  might  stay 
as  long  as  I  pleased."  I  '11  tell  you 
later  about  that.  EUNICE 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  65 


Letter  from  LEROY  ELLERTON, 

New  York,  to  JOHN  ELLER- 

TON,  Liverpool. 

NEW  YORK,  November. 
DEAR  FATHER: 

I  am  doing  very  well  with  the  office 
work,  although  I  '11  be  mighty  glad 
when  your  ship  steams  in  again.  I  read 
all  you  wrote  about  what  I  was  missing 
by  not  trotting  after  you  to  Europe  in 
October,  as  I  promised  to  do  when  I 
left  Kansas.  Great  guns!  Dad,  it  was 
your  own  fault  I  did  not  go  at  once. 
Your  cablegram  keeping  me  here  for  a 
month  was  waiting  for  me  when  I  got 
in  from  the  West.  I  confess  it  didn't 
look  bad  to  me,  though,  to  read  that  I 
would  be  needed  in  the  office  here  for  a 
short  time.  I  stayed  willingly,  because 
the  old  Atlantic  had  a  sort  of  impass 
able  look  every  time  I  saw  it.  And 
now  you  try  to  make  me  feel  what  I  'm 
losing  by  not  accepting  this  offer  from 
you  to  tour  Italy  in  December  and 
January.  I  reckon  Italy  will  be  stick 
ing  on  the  map  yet  a  while,  and  I  can 
see  it  'most  any  old  December  or  Janu 
ary,  unless  Vesuvius  takes  a  notion  to 
blow  it  up.  In  that  case  I'm  safer 
here  anyhow. 


66  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

By  the  way,  old  Bronson's  daughter, 
the  "  green  Kansas  girl,"  you  called  her, 
is  in  New  York  now  studying  voice  cul 
ture.  Don't  turn  up  your  aristocratic 
nose  and  ask  how  a  Kaw  squaw  can  do 
anything  with  voice  culture.  It  makes 
me  wrathy  with  my  paternal  relative 
every  time  I  think  of  how  you  regard 
Eunice  Bronson.  I  met  her  in  an  up 
town  elevator  this  morning.  I  mean 
she  met  me,  for  I  saw  her  come  from 
her  train  and  meet  our  friends,  and  I 
saw  where  they  lodged  her.  In  fact, 
I  've  been  pretty  much  awake  to  every 
move  she  has  made  in  New  York.  But 
to-day  we  came  together  in  an  elevator 
where  a  metropolitan  hog  was  about  to 
jostle  the  timid  little  Western  girl  off 
the  edge  of  the  earth. 

She  thought  I  had  gone  abroad,  but 
I  told  her  I  was  looking  after  your  busi 
ness.  That's  straight  goods,  Daddy; 
I  'm  managing  your  estate  and  I  was  n't 
telling  any  story.  You'll  say  I  could 
drop  it  any  half -minute  and  join  you  if 
I  chose.  But  I  don't  choose  —  not  right 
now  anyhow. 

Yours  an0., 

LEROY 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  67 


DECEMBER 

Letter  from  EUNICE  BRONSON, 

New  York,  to  DANIEL  BRON- 

SON,  Kansas. 

NEW  YORK,  Christmas  Eve. 
DEAR  FATHER: 

It  is  Christmas  Eve,  —  such  a  cold 
white  Yule-time  as  I  can  hardly  remem 
ber  in  Kansas.  And  I  remember  every 
thing  that  ever  happened  in  my  life  in 
the  West,  although  I  am  thoroughly 
acclimated  here,  and  feel  as  if  I  might 
have  lived  here  forever. 

Yet  always  I  'm  thinking  of  you  and 
Seth.  And  especially  to-night,  my  first 
holiday  season  away  from  home.  I  do 
so  much  wish  you  a  happy  Christmas, 
Father.  There's  a  misgiving  down  in 
my  heart  as  I  write  this.  Can  you  have 
a  real  happy  Christmas  with  both  of  us 
away?  Is  your  heart  in  the  ranch  house 
on  the  Solomon  to-night?  Or  is  it  half 
in  Seattle  with  my  big  brother,  and  half 
in  New  York  with  me? 

I  don't  blame  Seth  for  going  West. 
That  is  a  man's  right.  But  I  am  not 
sure  of  myself  to-night.  Ought  I  to  be 
at  home  with  my  lonely  father  ?  It  puts 
a  sadness  in  this  Christmas  Eve  for  me. 
And  yet,  I  remember  how  you  delighted 
in  all  my  plans  for  coming  East,  and 
every  letter  you  write  is  so  full  of  inter- 


68  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

est  in  my  work,  and  hope  that  I  may 
win.  I  guess  you  love  your  little  girl 
too  much  for  either  of  us  to  be  unhappy. 
And  I  am  going  to  win,  Father.  That 's 
what  I  came  here  to  do.  I  am  studying 
hard.  I  never  worked  in  that  farm 
house  in  the  days  when  the  crops  failed 
and  we  couldn't  afford  to  hire  help  as 
I  am  working  now.  But  I  am  so  happy 
in  it  all,  it  hardly  seems  like  work.  And 
as  to  liking  New  York  —  I  love  it.  I 
have  found  so  many  pleasant  people. 
New  friends  do  not  crowd  out  old  ones 
at  all.  I  find  room  for  both.  Leroy 
has  been  very  kind  to  me  and  I  Ve  had 
such  a  round  of  good  things  I  Ve  been 
in  a  perfect  whirl.  I  can't  realize 
sometimes  that  I  am  the  same  Kansas 
girl  who  came  to  New  York  last  Fall. 
Life  here  is  so  different,  so  hurried  and 
feverish,  I  wonder  where  it  will  lead  to, 
sometimes.  Yet,  I  like  it  for  this  very 
hurry. 

And  here  is  your  letter  saying  you  '11 
send  me  to  Europe  where  I  may  study 
all  next  year  if  I  like.  Of  course,  I 
want  to  go  to  Europe.  It  is  the  dream 
of  all  my  years.  Everybody  says  my 
success  is  assured  if  only  I  can  get  a 
little  foreign  training.  You  would  be 
so  proud  of  me  if  I  made  a  name  for 
myself  as  a  singer.  And  I  shall  try  so 
hard  to  earn  a  great  name. 

Leroy  was  here  last  night.  He  is  a 
full-fledged  business  man  now.  We 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  69 

talked  of  the  trip  to  Europe.  Some 
how  he  is  more  enthusiastic  than  any 
body  else  about  my  going,  but  he  never 
mentions  the  matter  unless  I  bring  it 
up,  and  he  always  changes  the  subject. 
But  when  he  does  talk  he  just  makes 
Europe  out  a  perfect  paradise  of  oppor 
tunity  and  urges  me  to  go,  even  when 
I  tell  him  how  lonely  you  will  be  with 
out  me. 

My  teachers  here  say  that  I  must 
have  had  very  fine  instruction  before 
coming  to  them,  or  I  could  not  have 
made  such  progress  in  so  short  a  time 
here,  nor  give  such  promise  of  results 
when  I  go  abroad.  Of  course,  I  know 
I  had  good  teachers. 

What  do  you  suppose  Leroy  said  to 
me  to-night  ?  He  came  over  to  wish  me 
the  season's  greeting,  and  to  bring  me  a 
big  bunch  of  the  most  exquisite  roses  I 
ever  saw.  When  I  told  him  what  the 
professor  at  the  Conservatory  had  said 
of  my  training,  he  replied: 

"  It 's  because  you  sang  so  much  in 
the  open  air.  It  was  the  prairie  that 
put  tone  and  volume  into  your  voice." 

I  answered  that  it  was  my  good  col 
lege  training. 

"  It  takes  the  West  to  put  foundation 
under  the  East,"  I  said  jokingly. 

'Yes,  and  it  takes  some  Western 
folks  to  knock  the  foundation  out  from 
under  some  of  us,"  Leroy  answered, 
and  changed  the  subject. 


70  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

It  is  getting  late  and  the  Christmas 
bells  will  be  chiming  soon  their  old,  old 
music  of  "peace  on  earth, —  good  will 
to  men."  Peace  and  good  will,  and  all 
a  daughter's  love,  I  am  sending  to  you 
so  far  away  in  the  Solomon  Valley  to 
night,  where  the  world  is  still  and  full 
of  peace.  The  roar  in  New  York  seems 
never  to  stop.  I  am  going  to  get  away 
out  of  it  for  a  little  moment  and  dream 
myself  back  in  the  home  with  you. 

Father,  may  I  tell  you  a  secret?  I 
have  nobody  but  you  to  whom  I  can 
write  or  speak.  I  wish  I  did  n't  care  so 
much  for  what  Leroy  thinks.  But  I 
do.  He  does  not  know  —  will  never 
know.  He  is  wrapped  up  in  this  busy 
life  of  the  city.  And  he  is  making 
money.  He  does  n't  care  whether  I  go 
to  Berlin  or  Talton.  It  all  began  last 
Summer.  I  tried  to  think  I  should  for 
get  it  when  he  was  gone.  I  put 
all  my  heart  into  my  work  and  I'm 
keeping  it  there,  for  that  is  my  life.  So, 
giving  it  up  now  would  be  like  giving 
up  my  life.  And  yet,  sometimes,  I  Ve 
dreamed  of  how  a  home  might  be  with 
one  I  most  loved  there. 

But  there  is  no  use  to  think  of  what 
might  be.  What  is,  is  a  hard-hearted, 
cool-spirited,  city-bred  business  man, 
engrossed  heart  and  soul  in  dollars  and 
cents  and  the  great  rushing  crowd  of  a 
tremendous  city,  of  which  he  is  a 
part;  and  a  maiden  —  destined  to  be  a 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  71 

maiden  always  —  who  longs  for  the 
success  that  must  come,  a  name  of 
world-wide  note,  and  the  fame  that  is 
honestly  won  and  belongs  to  those  who 
do  great  things. 

Father  dear,  you  must  never  tell  that 
I  told  you  this  about  Roy.  It  is  a  relief 
to  tell  you.  Now  it  is  written,  I  feel 
better. 

When  I  get  all  my  plans  for  Europe 
arranged,  I  '11  write  them  in  full.  Are 
you  sure  you  won't  miss  me  too  much? 

These  beautiful  roses  fill  the  air  with 
their  perfume.  They  are  dainty  and 
pink  like  the  pink  tints  of  a  twilight  sky 
that  I  Ve  seen  above  the  prairies  beyond 
Waconda.  *  *  * 

Midnight,  and  the  Christmas  bells  are 
chiming  now.  They  seem  to  voice  my 
love  to  you,  dear,  far-away  Father,  so 
good  to  me.  I  hope  these  sweet-toned 
bells  bring  dreams  of  peace  to  all  I  love 
—  you  and  Seth  —  and  even  to  Leroy, 
who  is  not  thinking  of  me  as  they  chime. 
He  is  dreaming  of  the  business  success 
he  is  to  achieve.  Peace  and  good  will, 
and  all  good  things  be  yours. 

Lovingly, 

EUNICE 


72  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 


Letter  from  LEEOY  ELLERTON 
to  his  MOTHER 

NEW  YORK,  Christmas  Eve. 
DEAR,  DEAR  MOTHER: 

My  Christmas  greeting  to  you  this 
white,  clear  Christmas  eve,  not  by  let 
ter  nor  cable,  but  by  that  wireless  line 
of  love  vibrating  from  the  heart  of  every 
boy  who  loves  his  mother  as  I  do  you. 
And  equal  greeting  and  love  to  my 
father  with  you  —  but  it's  a  different 
kind  of  affection.  You  know  a  fellow's 
mother  is  his  mother,  that's  all.  And 
if  it  was  n't  Christmastide  and  I  had  the 
chance,  I  'd  like  to  punch  the  old  gentle 
man  a  round  or  two  just  to  paste  time 
out  of  him,  as  the  boys  say,  for  the  low- 
down  trick  he  played  on  me  last  Spring. 

To  think  of  him  and  Daniel  Bronson 
being  boy  playmates  and  old  college 
chums  at  Yale,  the  lobsters!  And  of 
sending  me,  all  verdant  and  innocent, 
out  to  Kansas  to  make  a  fool  of  myself. 
Well,  it  was  a  good  thing  the  Atlantic 
was  between  us  when  I  read  your  letter, 
explaining  everything.  As  I  say,  it's 
the  Yule  time  of  love,  so  I  '11  be  mild. 
Only,  if  old  Vesuvius  should  get  to  act 
ing  ugly,  keep  him  on  the  landward  side 
of  you.  He  ought  to  be  shaken  up  and 
likewise  scorched  and  have  sackcloth 
and  ashes  for  his  portion  for  a  while. 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  73 

I've  tried  to  think  of  all  the  silly, 
snobbish  things  I  said  at  the  Bronsons ' 
last  April  and  May  — tried  to  forget 
them  rather,  for  they  come  back  to  my 
mind  often  enough.  I  'm  glad  I  had 
the  sense  to  get  over  it  all  before  many 
weeks  and  to  see  how  the  land  lay.  I 
inherited  that  sense  from  you,  dearie 
(Dad  hasn't  that  much  altogether,  let 
alone  giving  me  any) ,  and  I  quit  acting 
the  idiot  pretty  early  in  the  game.  But 
it  is  the  hour  of  peace  on  earth  and  good 
will  to  men.  I  wish  the  angels  had 
made  it  women  too,  and  not  in  irrever 
ence,  I  wish  it. 

Mother  dear,  I  must  tell  you  some 
things  to-night,  just  as  I  used  to  tell 
you  my  troubles  when  I  was  a  little  boy 
and  cuddled  down  by  your  knee  on  win 
ter  evenings.  Let  me  feel  your  hand 
on  my  hair  again  as  I  write. 

I  learned  more  than  father  had 
thought  about  in  Kansas  last  Summer. 
He  wanted  me  to  find  out  what  the 
West  is  like.  That  rheumatism  busi 
ness  was  only  a  side  issue  with  him.  It 
did  get  me  away  from  thinking  of  my 
own  ailments.  I  'm  doubly  grateful  for 
that.  Heaven  save  us  from  a  whining 
man!  —  or  anybody  else  who  dotes  on 
"  symptoms  "  and  keeps  his  pains  posted 
up  for  public  inspection.  Ellerton, 
Senior,  wanted  me  to  find  out  the 
worth  of  character  in  rural  homes  and 


74  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

country  lives.  I  found  it  out.  Give 
me  99  per  cent  plus  on  Exhibit  "  A." 

Mother,  I  found  more  than  that.  I 
saw  clearly  the  way  of  life  I  want  to  go. 
It  is  in  my  New  England  blood  to  love 
the  soil.  Am  I  not  the  son  of  Vermont 
and  Maine,  both  of  my  parents  born 
and  reared  away  from  the  city?  I 
wakened  to  my  kingdom  one  day  out 
on  the  Kansas  prairies.  It  began  by 
finding  fault  with  Seth  Bronson  for  not 
wanting  to  stay  on  the  ranch  with  his 
father.  What  he  was  turning  down 
seemed  so  full  of  promise  to  me.  I 
love  those  grand,  open  fields  on  the 
sunny  plains.  The  growing  crops  and 
fattening  stock,  the  bounty  of  Nature, 
and  the  chance  to  think  and  live  all 
called  to  me  as  nothing  else  in  this  world 
ever  did  —  or  ever  will. 

Yes,  I  'm  fixed  here,  in  the  city,  with 
one  foot  lariated  to  an  office  desk-leg, 
and  I  shall  pay  out  my  rope  as  far  as 
the  parks,  now  and  then  in  the  spring 
and  summer  time,  while  out  in  Kansas, 
the 

"Rolling  prairie's  billowy  swell, 
Breezy  upland,  and  timbered  dell, 
Stately  mansion,  and  hut  forlorn  — 
All  are  hidden  by  walls  of  corn." 

I  'm  trying  heart  and  soul  to  be  the 
junior  partner  here  and  to  do  my  work 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  75 

well.  And  I  '11  keep  on  till  it  is  second 
nature  to  me. 

There  was  another  lesson  I  learned 
in  the  West,  one  that  Father  didn't 
know  was  in  the  book,  or  he  might  not 
have  selected  the  Solomon  Valley  as  a 
sanitarium  for  me.  Let  me  whisper, 
Mummy.  I  learned  to  love  a  dear, 
sweet-faced  country  girl,  a  wide-awake, 
capable,  fun-loving,  but  scholarly, 
thinking  girl.  A  girl  with  a  life  pur 
pose  of  her  own  —  ding  it !  —  a  plan 
for  the  future  so  big  and  definite  that 
I  cut  no  figure  in  it.  I've  told  you 
about  Eunice  Bronson  and  her  notion 
of  being  a  musician.  She  is  here  now, 
taking  voice  culture  under  New  York's 
Best.  Said  Best  are  wild  about  her, 
urging  her  to  keep  to  this  purpose 
she  brought  with  her.  Study  here  and 
abroad!  Training  under  the  best  Mas 
ters  of  Europe!  I  hear  it  all  the  time. 

For  I  stay  pretty  close  to  her  here. 
You  can  guess  why  I  turned  down  Italy 
this  year.  I  'm  a  fool  still.  Father  '11 
have  to  play  a  bigger  trick  yet  to  get 
me  altogether  cured.  I  ?m  going  to 
stay  here  too,  as  long  as  she  is  in  New 
York.  It  is  my  last,  last  time,  you  see. 
Also,  you  can  see  how  there  is  nothing 
for  me  in  the  Solomon  Valley  now,  even 
if  I  could  cut  this  business  career. 

Have  I  told  her  all  this?  Not  I.  I 
tried  to  when  we  were  at  Waconda 


76  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

Springs  one  August  evening.  But  I 
read  her  story  first  and  I  knew  it  would 
be  wasted  time,  so  I  kept  still.  I  had 
hope  then,  of  something  changing 
things.  I  haven't  any  more.  She  is 
planning  to  go  to  Europe  in  June. 
When  her  steamer  sails,  it  will  carry 
my  one  dream  of  happiness  with  it.  So, 
I  'm  going  to  keep  her  near  me  as  long 
as  I  can;  and  when  she  gets  ready  to 
leave  New  York,  I  '11  slip  up  to  Mon 
treal  for  a  fortnight,  so  I  can 't  play  the 

—   blamed    fool    and   go   with   her. 
It  would  be  like  me.     I  'm  such  a  - 
chump.     And  then  when  she  is  out  in 
mid-ocean,  I  '11  come  back  and  resume 
my  fetters  here. 

But,  mother  darling,  I  '11  play  the 
man  and  make  my  bondage  my  help. 
I  'm  not  going  to  be  a  silly  kind  of  idiot. 
I  '11  just  do  the  best  work  possible  and 
you  and  father  will  be  proud  of  me  as 
a  business  man  some  day,  I  hope. 

The  Christmas  bells  are  chiming,  so 
it  is  midnight.  This  is  the  strangest 
Christmas  I  have  ever  known.  The  only 
peace  on  earth  for  me,  dear  mother,  is 
the  peace  of  overcoming.  Surely  there 
will  be  a  day  when  I'll  forget  all  this 
and  be  as  happy  as  I  used  to  be. 
Life  has  these  rifts,  I  know.  But  the 
chasms  close  again,  don't  they  ?  *  *  * 
There  are  the  bells  again,  so  sweet  and 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  77 

clear.  I  hope  they  are  sounding  softly 
in  dreams  for  Eunice,  who  is  dreaming 
of  fame,  not  of  me.  To  you  and  father, 
far  away,  a  joyous  Christmas.  And  to 
all  the  world,  from  Leroy  Ellerton, 
good  will  and  peace. 

Good-night  and  good-morning,  pre 
cious  Mother. 

Lovingly, 

ROY 


78  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 


Letter  from  DANIEL  BRONSON, 

Kansas,  to  EUNICE  BRON- 

SON,  New  York 

KANSAS,  Christmas  Eve. 
DEAR  DAUGHTER  EUNICE  : 

This  is  Christmas  Eve,  and  although 
I  am  all  alone,  I  am  happy  to  send 
Christmas  greeting  to  my  children.  I 
sent  all  the  Christmas  gifts  by  express 
a  week  ago,  so  you  will  be  sure  to  have 
them  in  the  morning.  The  house  seems 
pretty  big  and  hollow-sounding,  for  it 
is  the  first  time  in  a  quarter  of  a  century 
that  I  have  been  alone  when  the  holiday 
season  came. 

It  seems  such  a  little  while  ago  that 
you  and  Seth  were  toddling  about  in 
our  little  two-roomed  house.  That's 
the  tool-house  now.  Ellerton,  your 
oldest  brother,  was  born  in  a  dugout 
one  Christmas  Eve,  twenty-four  years 
ago.  Poor,  little  baby!  He  didn't 
live  the  summer  through.  We  had  a 
better  home  —  a  palace  it  was  to  your 
mother  and  me  —  when  you  and  Seth 
came  to  us.  And  yet,  how  poor  we 
were !  No  Christmas  stockings  in  those 
first  years.  We  just  kept  Christmas 
in  our  hearts,  which  isn't  a  bad  place, 
Eunice,  to  celebrate  it.  For  we  were 
happy  in  each  other's  love,  my  wife  and 
I,  and  in  our  two  sturdy  little  ones,  who 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  79 

never  knew  what  sickness  meant.  These 
things  made  up  for  the  lack  of  beau 
tiful  gifts.  Such  a  little  while  ago  all 
that  was.  And  now  Christmas  Eve  is 
here  again.  The  quarter  section  of 
land  I  preempted  on  the  frontier  is 
only  one-eighth  of  the  Bronson  ranch 
to-day.  The  little  dugout  is  the  dog 
house  now,  and  the  12x14  homestead, 
a  vine-covered  tool  shelter.  Fourteen 
rooms,  and  upper  and  lower  verandas, 
hot  and  cold  water,  a  lighting  and  heat 
ing  system,  etc.,  etc.  These  things  have 
grown  up  from  year  to  year. 

But  to-night,  although  I  am  utterly 
alone,  daughter  dear,  I  won't  say  I  am 
lonely,  for  I  know  my  children's  hearts 
are  with  me.  And  space  does  n't  count 
where  love  is  strong. 

Seth  writes  that  it  is  bitterly  cold  in 
Seattle,  and  I  see  by  the  daily  papers 
that  New  York  will  have  a  white 
Christmas.  Out  here  the  air  is  almost 
balmy,  and  the  skies  are  cloudless. 
There  is  a  sort  of  October  haze  over 
the  landscape,  a  sweet  restfulness  and 
peace  that  seem  to  pervade  every 
thing. 

I  had  business  over  Waconda  way 
to-day.  It  was  sunset  when  I  reached 
the  Springs  coming  home.  I  was  in 
no  hurry,  for  there  were  no  little  chil 
dren  waiting  at  home  for  me  to-night. 


so  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

So,  I  turned  aside  and  went  over  to 
Waconda  while  the  sun  sank  from  sight 
and  the  twilight  of  this  beautiful  Christ 
mas  Eve  came  on.  My  heart  that  had 
been  sore  and  aching  for  my  children 
was  at  peace  as  I  sat  on  the  rocks  and 
thought  of  you. 

Seth  is  more  than  making  good,  he 
writes,  and  is  infatuated  with  Seattle. 
It  seems  a  certain  black-eyed  Manhat 
tan  girl,  a  classmate  of  his,  has  gone  to 
Seattle  in  the  interests  of  Domestic  Sci 
ence,  and  Seth,  also  in  the  interests  of 
Domestic  Science,  is  finding  that  city 
a  good  location.  As  I  sat  by  the 
"  Spirit  Springs,"  as  we  used  to  call  it, 
and  watched  the  changing  beauty  of  the 
twilight,  I  lived  my  youth  over  again 
until  my  own  heart-ache  slipped  away. 
For  love  is  a  divine  thing. 

"  The  love  of  home  and  native  land, 
And  that  which  springs  'twixt  son 

and  sire, 
And  that  which  welds  the  heart  and 

hand 

Of  man  and  maiden  in  its  fire 
Are  signs  by  which  we  understand 
The  Love  whose  passion  shook  the 

Cross; 

And  all  those  loves  that  deep  and  broad 
Make  princely  gain  or  priceless  loss, 
Reveal  the  Love  that  lives  in  God 
As  in  a  blood-illumined  gloss" 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  si 

I  thought  of  my  daughter  away  to 
the  eastward.  I  know,  Eunice,  that 
your  heart  is  full  of  joy  to-night,  be 
cause  New  York  holds  the  best  things 
in  the  world  for  you  now,  although  you 
have  put  away  the  things  that  are  mak 
ing  my  boy's  Christmas  good.  You  will 
come  back  to  them  some  day,  when 
fame  and  success  are  won.  God  grant 
you  do  not  return  too  late.  There 
comes  a  time  to  all  of  us  when  the  sweet 
est  peace  we  can  know  is  the  peace  of 
overcoming;  of  forgetting  ourselves  in 
our  love  for  our  fellow  man. 

Believe  me,  dearie,  there  wasn't  a 
happier  man  in  all  Kansas  to-night 
than  your  old  farmer  father,  driving 
home  in  the  quiet  evening  time.  I 
lifted  my  face  to  the  open  skies  and 
looked  into  the  faces  of  the  stars,  the 
same  old  stars  that  watched  this  valley 
long  before  Waconda  was  here,  and 
down  through  countless  centuries  while 
bald  rock  became  sandy  desert,  and 
sandy  desert  grew  to  grassy  plain,  and 
grassy  plain  to  verdant  prairie,  which 
human  hands  —  even  my  hands  —  have 
helped  to  turn  to  fruitful  fields,  for  a 
h  appy  folk  to  thrive  upon. 

And  back  of  these  changeless  stars  is 
the  changeless  love  of  the  Heavenly 
Father.  His  right  hand  has  guided  me 
down  the  years.  I  love  the  land  where 
I  have  walked  with  Him  in  storm  and 


82  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

sunshine;  so  the  Christmas  peace  and 
good  will  are  blessing  the  Solomon  Val 
ley  for  me. 

It  is  growing  late  —  almost  midnight. 
May  the  love  of  God,  the  Father  Al 
mighty,  and  of  Jesus  Christ,  His  Son, 
be  and  abide  with  my  children  now  and 
through  the  coming  years. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

DANIEL  BRONSON 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  ss 


JUNE 

Letter  from  EUNICE  BRONSON, 

Talton,  Kansas,  to  LEROY  EL- 

LERTON,  New  York  City. 

TALTON,  KANSAS,  June. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND  : 

Here  I  am  again  out  on  the  ranch  in 
the  Solomon  Valley.  Of  course  you, 
with  all  of  my  New  York  friends,  will 
be  utterly  disappointed  in  me,  for  my 
career  was  so  full  of  promise.  And 
father  had  given  full  consent  for  me  to 
go  on  with  my  music  under  German 
masters.  Oh,  it  was  a  rosy  world  open 
ing  before  me,  full  of  busy  days,  of 
struggling  onward,  winning  my  way 
step  by  step,  and  maybe  too,  full  of 
rivalry  and  much  defeat  before  fame 
came.  For  that  was  what  I  wanted  — 
or  thought  I  wanted  —  the  sound  of 
praise,  the  cheering  audiences,  the 
power  of  mastery  over  listening  minds, 
the  rush  and  whirl  and  glitter  of  a  grand 
career. 

When  you  went  up  to  Montreal  on 
business  just  before  I  was  ready  to  sail, 
I  don't  know  what  led  me  to  stop  long 
enough  to  sit  down  and  take  stock  of 
myself.  But  I  did.  I  weighed  Life 
as  if  it  were  calculated  in  ounces  and 
pounds.  And  the  result  was  this:  I 
gave  up  every  plan  and  hope  and 


84  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

dream  and  came  back  again  to  Kansas, 
because  my  father  wanted  me  and 
needed  me.  He  didn't  tell  me 
so.  Brave  old  farmer  that  he  is!  He 
learned  long  ago  how  to  endure  and  not 
complain.  One  gleans  that  lesson  from 
the  prairie  sod  in  the  years  when  the 
sunshine  is  a  furnace  and  the  clouds  for 
get  their  rain  and  the  fierce  winds  blow 
all  the  seed  away  from  the  loose,  dusty 
earth.  In  such  years  the  farmers  wait 
unchanged  like  Waconda,  sure  that 
other  seasons  will  bring  fruition  of  their 
hopes.  And  so  my  father  waited,  fill 
ing  every  letter  with  cheery  words.  He 
sent  me  all  the  funds  I  needed  and  put 
no  bar  in  the  way  of  my  doing  just  as 
I  chose. 

Give  me  credit,  or  blame  me  alone, 
for  turning  my  face  from  the  East. 
And  don't  be  too  severe,  please,  for  I 
have  valued  your  friendship.  And  now 
that  you  are  a  fixture  in  the  city,  a 
wheel  in  the  great  machinery  of  its 
business,  and  I  am  only  a  home-maker 
in  a  Kansas  farm  house,  our  lives  will 
run  so  far  apart,  it  will  be  by  merest 
chance  of  Fate  that  they  will  ever  cross 
lines  again.  Please  do  not  think  I  am 
making  an  utter  failure  of  living.  Re 
member  me  kindly  if  you  remember  at 
all.  I  told  you  once  out  by  Waconda, 
the  message  of  whose  waters  I  could 
never  understand,  that  we  must  read 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  85 

life,  each  for  himself.  I  do  not  know 
why  that  piece  of  the  green  ocean  is  held 
here  in  the  heart  of  the  green  prairie, 
but  I  do  know  that  my  work  is  here 
with  my  father  and  home  and  the  best 
folks  on  earth  —  these  lifetime  neigh 
bors  and  friends  —  who  are  a  part  of 
this  Solomon  River  country. 

If  you  could  only  see  how  this  home 
looks  to  my  eyes  that  I  thought  could 
never  grow  weary  of  city  grandeur,  and 
if  you  could  see  the  vast,  beautiful  out 
door  world  unrolling  its  June  splendor, 
you  would  be  gentle  in  your  thought  of 
me.  The  call  of  the  West  was  in 
my  ears  day  and  night,  much  as  I 
tried  to  drown  it  with  the  noise  of  the 
city  and  the  roar  of  the  Atlantic  and 
the  cries  of  Fame  urging  me  on.  The 
bustle  of  New  York,  the  fever  for  a 
career,  go  down,  for  me  before  the  du 
ties  of  home;  and  the  handsome  parks, 
the  huge  buildings,  the  rushing  crowds, 
all  give  place  to  the  wide  Kansas  prai 
ries  and  the  peace  of  the  Solomon  Val 
ley.  You  will  be  disappointed  in  me, 
and  disgusted  with  me.  But  while  I 
miss  many  things  I  have  been  having 
for  nearly  a  year,  I  am  finding  real  life 
here,  and  rest,  and  —  well,  you  know,  I 
was  born  in  Kansas,  and  after  all,  I  'm 
happiest  here. 

Yours  sincerely, 

EUNICE  BRONSON 


86 


THE  PEACE  OF  THE 


P.  S. — Strangely  enough,  I  can  reach 
the  high  notes  here  when  I  sing  out  on 
the  open  prairie  that  I  never  could 
reach  in  the  Conservatory.  My  voice 
is  richest  here.  So,  I  must  belong  in 
the  heart  of  Kansas. 

EUNICE 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  87 

Letter  from  LEEOY  ELLERTON, 

Talton,  Kansas,  to  JOHN  EL- 

LERTON,  Liverpool 

TALTON,  KANSAS,  June. 
MY  DEAR  FATHER: 

Don't  be  surprised  when  you  get  this, 
not  too  surprised,  anyhow.  I  send  this 
to  Liverpool  so  you  may  know  what  to 
expect  when  you  get  to  New  York. 
I  'm  out  hunting  the  rheumatism  I  lost 
here  once. 

You  see,  Father,  I  came  West  first 
against  my  will,  for  I  am  a  born  New 
Yorker,  that  is  to  say  I  was  a  narrow 
provincial.  It  didn't  take  many  weeks 
for  me  to  learn  my  lesson  —  that  this  is 
the  real  thing,  not  mere  sham  living,  as 
I  had  supposed  it  would  be.  More 
than  that,  I  found  the  dearest  girl  in 
the  world  out  here.  I  lost  my  rheuma 
tism  and  heart  at  the  same  time.  And 
I  learned  to  detest  the  city  jungle  as  I 
learned  to  love  this  valley.  The  only 
thing  I  have  ever  really  wanted  to  do 
is  to  put  my  whole  energy  into  the  life 
and  work  of  a  Kansas  ranch.  Maybe 
nobody  ever  heard  of  a  city  boy  want 
ing  to  become  a  farmer.  Let  me  tell 
you  that  lazy  Leroy  Ellerton  never 
really  lived  in  any  city;  he  just  stayed 
there  to  be  with  his  parents  and 
give  dignity  to  the  family  through  his 
infancy  and  boyhood,  and  until  he 
had  finished  college.  One  day,  out  in 


88  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

the  Solomon  Valley,  his  real  self  awoke, 
and  clamored  for  its  rights.  Day  by 
day  through  a  glorious  Summer  he  saw 
more  and  more  clearly  the  work  his 
heart  and  hand  were  yearning  for. 
There  are  so  many  misfits  in  this  world, 
the  wonder  is  there  is  any  success  at  all. 
So  many  "  square  men  in  round  holes," 
etc.,  and  the  trouble  generally  comes  in 
trying  to  make  a  "rounder"  of  the 
square  man  instead  of  working  a  little 
on  the  hole  he  must  fit  into. 

Anyhow,  the  same  Leroy  boy  knew 
eternally  well  what  he  could  do  best  and 
was  just  planning  to  negotiate  matters 
for  getting  into  it,  when  there  came  the 
decree  that  he  must  give  it  up.  And 
he  gave  it  up,  knowing,  like  Kipling's 
fool,  when  he  did  it  that  — 

"Part  of  Mm  lived,  but  most  of  him 
died" 

But  I  obeyed  to  a  degree.  I  tried 
honestly  to  do  your  bidding.  When  I 
had  left  Kansas  and  reached  the  city, 
intending  to  take  the  steamer  the  next 
day  for  Liverpool,  your  cablegram  kept 
me  back  for  a  brief  time.  Then  Eunice 
came  to  New  York,  and  somehow  a 
pleasure  trip  through  Italy  looked  like 
hard  work  at  once,  and  I  cut  it  out.  But 
I  buckled  down  to  real  hard  labor, 
and  I  worked  all  the  harder  to  fill  my 
place  with  you  when  Eunice  thought 
her  pleasure  lay  in  a  singer's  career.  I 
never  tried  to  persuade  her  away  from 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  89 

it.  She  gave  it  up  herself,  and  came 
back  to  make  her  home  in  Kansas  and 
to  make  her  father  happy.  And  the 
joy  of  duty  done  was  hers. 

When  Eunice  was  ready  to  sail  for 
Europe,  I  knew  I  'd  make  a  fool  of  my 
self  if  I  stayed  visibly  in  New  York.  So, 
I  told  her  I  was  going  to  Montreal  on 
business.  I  knew  in  a  thousand  years 
the  Ellertons  had  never  had  any  busi 
ness  in  Montreal.  But  I  told  her  that, 
intending  to  hide  around  a  corner. 

That  wasn't  going  to  work,  I  soon 
found  out,  so  I  put  off  —  on  a  penance 
pilgrimage  to  East  Machias,  Maine. 

Father,  I  understand  now  all  about 
the  reward  of  humble  sacrifice.  I  went 
up  to  cheer  Aunt  Prudence  in  her 
lonely  hours.  And  it  happened  that 
Aunt  Pru  was  the  one  to  confer  bene 
fits.  One  evening,  sitting  in  the  twi 
light  by  the  wood  fire,  somehow  —  Lord 
knows  —  the  dear  old  lady  drew  me  on 
and  on  to  talk  to  her  as  I  never  dreamed 
of  talking  to  anybodv  but  my  own 
Mummy. 

And  then,  with  the  firelight  on  her 
sweet  old  face  and  her  snowy  hair  and 
with  the  wisdom  of  her  eighty  years  of 
thoughtful  living  and  good  deeds  to 
others,  she  seemed  a  sort  of  saint  to  me. 

"  Eunice  is  n't  doing  her  duty  to  her 
father,  so  much  as  to  herself,"  Aunt 
Pru  declared.  "  Far  down  in  the  girl's 
heart  there  is  a  voice  calling  her  away 


90  THE  PEACE  OF  THE 

from  all  this  thing  she  has  planned,  or 
she  could  not  leave  it.  Take  my  word, 
Leroy,  the  girl  isn't  happy  here,  and 
she  knows  where  her  duty  lies." 

"But  what  should  I  do,  Aunt  Pru 
dence?"  I  asked  her. 

"  The  work  you  can  do  best  and  love 
the  doing.  It's  not  always  the  easiest 
work,  as  labor  goes,  nor  the  work  that 
brings  the  most  money,  but  if  it's  the 
thing  you  love  to  do,  and  can  work  the 
prettiest  pattern  into  it,  do  that." 

Then  I  saw  my  duty.  Father,  I 
hate  Wall  Street,  and  I  've  come  out 
here  to  live  a  broad,  busy,  free  life,  to  be 
a  farmer  in  the  Solomon  Valley.  To 
the  life  I  leave  behind  me  in  the  city,  it 
is  as  health  to  fever ;  as  peace  after  tur 
moil.  This  is  the  best  place  on  earth 
for  me,  for  while  our  families  are  widely 
separated  —  you  and  mother  in  New 
York  and  Seth  Bronson  in  Seattle  — 
they  centre  here. 

I  know  all  about  your  friendship  for 
Daniel  Bronson,  you  two  old  sinners! 
I  ought  to  be  obliged  to  you  for  letting 
me  make  a  fool  of  myself,  for  it  was 
good  for  me,  maybe.  Only  nobody, 
least  of  all  a  New  Yorker,  cares  to 
make  a  fool  of  himself.  I  came  here 
two  days  ago.  Last  night  we  went  in 
the  auto  over  to  that  same  lost  bit  of 
the  sea,  I  wrote  you  about  last  year  —  I 
mean  Waconda  Springs. 

Sitting    on    the    rocks    looking    out 


SOLOMON  VALLEY  91 

toward  the  Solomon  River,  we  saw  the 
full  moon  make  a  new  heaven  and  a 
new  earth  for  this  exquisite  June  night. 
I  asked  Eunice  again,  as  I  had  asked 
her  once  before,  if  she  knew  the  mystery 
of  old  Waconda,  and  the  message  of 
the  waters  to  us. 

"I  cannot  understand  why  this 
spring  was  left  here  all  these  years," 
she  said.  "  It  is  a  mystery  I  could  never 
fathom." 

And  then  I  told  her  what  the  waters 
had  told  me;  that  this  tiny  bit  of  the 
sea,  left  here  for  so  many  centuries,  had 
so  loved  this  place,  so  rested  in  the  peace 
and  beauty  of  the  valley,  sun-kissed  and 
mist-swathed,  with  the  tenderness  of  the 
springtime,  the  glory  of  mid-summer, 
the  splendor  of  autumn,  that  it  chose 
to  stay  here;  chose  to  forsake  the  rest 
less,  stormy,  seething  ocean  that  ham 
mers  forever  on  its  shores  and  here  to 
watch  the  unfolding  of  a  kingdom,  the 
life  of  a  people  coming  at  last  into  their 
own. 

The  clear  green  water  dimpled  in 
silver  sparkles  under  the  glorious  moon, 
and  the  peace  of  the  Solomon  Valley 
mingled  with  the  peace  of  our  own 
hearts.  For  we,  too,  had  found  our 
own  at  last,  —  our  kingdom  here  in 
Kansas. 

Your  loving 

ROY 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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(E1602slO)476B 


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